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ITRAflD  «W!1M» 
ACRE*  Of-  »OOK9 
14*  PACIFIC  AVfNUB 


Cinch 
And  Other  Stories 


Books  by 
Will  Allen   Dromgoole 

jn 

The  Heart   of  Old    Hickory   and 

Other  Stories  Tall  i6mo,     $1.25 

The  Valley  Path  i2mo,       1.25 

Hero- Chums  Thin  i2mo,  .50 

Cinch  and  Other  Stories  umo,     $1.25 

A  Boy's  Battle  Thin  lamo,  .50 

Rare  Old  Chums  Thin  umo,        .50 

* 

Dana  Estes  &  Company,  Publishers 
Boston,  Mass. 


CINCH 


AND     OTHER      STORIES 
TALES    OF   TENNESSEE 


BY 

WILL   ALLEN    DROMGOOLE 

Author  of  "  The  Heart  of  Old  Hickory," 

"  The  Valley  Path,"  "  Hero-Chums," 

"  A  Boy's  Battle,"  etc. 


BOSTON 
DANA    ESTES   &f   COMPANY 

MDCCCXCVIII 


Copyright,  1898 
BY  DANA  ESTES  AND  COMPANY 


Second  Edition 


(Colonial  fyttts 

Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  C.  H.  Simonda  &  Co. 
Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


To  one 

who  has  followed 

my  career  with  kind  and  faithful 

interest :  who  has  sympathized  with  my 

struggles,  grieved  for  my  sorrows,  and  rejoiced 

in  my  successes  :  my  friend 

fllmcfaug  i,.  J9ofon0 


5 


Contents 


PACK 

CINCH     .         .        «...        .  .  ii 

THE  LEPER  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     .  .  63 

OLD  HICKORY'S  BALL  .        .        .        .  .  88 

A  SCRAP  OF  COLLEGE  LORE       .        .  .  no 

GEORGE  WASHINGTON'S  "  BUFDAY  "   .  .  146 

A  PARABLE  OF  FOUR  TALENTS  .        .  .  163 

SWEET  'LAASES     ......  199 

A  GRAIN  OF  GOLD       .        .        *        .  .231 

A  DAY  IN  ASIA    .        ,        .        •        .  •    »  261 

A  HUMBLE  ADVOCATE         .        .        .  .  288 

TAPPINE        .        .     -  •       .       ,     •  *  '  *  319 


Cinch 


THE  air  was  full  of  plaintive  sugges- 
tiveness  :  drifting  leaves,  bursting 
burrs,  the  startled  scurry  of  a  rabbit 
through  the  crisping  brown  grasses.  Au- 
tumn in  the  mountains  ;  Nature's  time  to 
die.  A  haze  lay  upon  the  river,  the  old, 
Indian-loved  Hiwassee,  and  veiled  the 
finer  line  of  mountains  rising  above  Sweet- 
water  Valley.  Higher  up,  where  the  road 
lay  along  the  rim  of  the  mountain,  over- 
looking the  valley,  a  rider  had  drawn  rein, 
and  sat  gazing  down  into  the  mist-en- 
wrapped silence  in  a  sort  of  fascination 
that  seemed  for  the  nonce  to  illumine 
his  bearded,  sunbrowned  face. 
ii 


12  Cinch 

"  Well,"  said  he,  rousing  from  his  rev- 
erie, "  it  is  pretty.  It  has  growed  more 
prettier  since  I  been  gone,  danged  if  it 
ain't.  Lord,  Lord,  but  if  I  haven't 
a-thirsted  for  it,  as  that  there  Texas 
parson  useter  say,  '  like  rain  in  a  dry 
an'  thirsty  land.'  The  very  sight  of  it's 
coolin',  blamed  if  it  ain't.  An'  if  yonder 
am'  Sugar  Creek  friskin'  along  same's 
ever  to  the  Hiwassee.  Well,  well,  well !  " 

He  had  been  absent  eight  years,  yet 
the  fact  that  Nature  had  stood  still  during 
the  interval  of  his  own  varied  wanderings 
filled  him  with  surprise.  It  was  like 
meeting,  after  years  of  separation  and 
silence,  a  friend,  and  finding  his  friendly 
heart  unchanged. 

"Now,  I  do  wonder  if  old  man 
Stamps's  cabin  is  still  standin'  over  yon- 
der on  the  side  o'  the  Knob  where  it 
useter  stand.  I'm  good  mind  to  ride 
down  there  an'  see;  they're  blood  kin  to 
me,  an'  if  the  old  folks  are  gone,  maybe 
that  triflin',  liquor-lovin'  Jerry's  livin* 


Cinch  13 

there.  An'  if  I  ain't  forgot  more'n  I 
think,  I  know  a  nigher  cut  to  the  house 
than  the  big  road.  Oh,  but  it  is  pretty, 
the  mountains  is;  an'  I've  missed  'em; 
oh,  I've  missed  'em  might'ly  !  " 

He  had  fallen  to  dreaming  again,  his 
keen,  dark  eye  passing  from  peak  to 
peak,  sighting  Cardwells,  Chilhowee,  and 
Frog  Mountains.  The  sound  of  a  horn, 
long,  winding,  melodious,  among  the 
steeps,  aroused  him.  He  shook  him- 
self, as  if  the  witchery  of  dreaming  had 
been  a  material  bulk,  to  be  thrown  off 
at  will. 

"  Well,  I  must  be  mosin'  on ;  Christ- 
mas'll  be  comin'  along  here  by  an'  by," 
he  declared. 

Giving  the  reins  a  jerk  that  turned  the 
horse's  head  eastward,  he  struck  off  into 
one  of  the  little  cattle-trails  with  which 
the  mountains  abound,  laughing  the  while 
like  a  boy  to  discover  how  well  he  re- 
membered the  old  paths.  For  two  miles 
he  rode  on  silent,  after  the  manner  of  the 


14  Cinch 

mountaineers.  Only  once,  in  the  woods 
upon  his  right  hand,  his  sharp  eye  de- 
tected a  buckeye-tree,  and  instantly  he 
rode  his  horse  under  the  freighted,  low- 
drooping  limbs. 

"  The  best  luck  in  the  world,  findin' 
a  buckeye-tree  is,"  he  told  himself;  and 
gathering  two  of  the  largest  buckeyes  he 
could  reach,  slipped  them  into  his  pocket 
and  rode  on,  back  by  the  cattle-trail,  in 
the  direction  of  Stamps's  cabin  on  the 
Knob. 

In  a  little  while  the  woods  broke  away ; 
the  whole  earth  seemed  to  lie  at  his  feet, 
bathed  in  sunshine  and  carpeted  with  pur- 
ple, and  scarlet,  and  bright  gold.  He 
found  himself  upon  one  of  those  odd  ele- 
vations, neither  hill  nor  mountain,  which 
across  the  Carolina  line  are  known  as 
"  balds,"  but  upon  the  Tennessee  side  go 
by  the  no  more  euphonious  name  of 
"  knobs."  Almost  at  his  very  feet  stood 
a  house,  a  weather-worn  log  cabin  of  the 
primitive  build,  —  a  room  on  either  side, 


Cinch  i 5 

with  a  broad,  open  passage  between,  a 
shed-room  in  the  rear,  an  ash-hopper  so 
near  that  it  gave  the  impression  of  being 
a  part  of  the  house.  A  group  of  gnarled 
old  cedars  brushed  their  dark  boughs 
in  a  kind  of  rhythmic  time  against  the 
gray-boarded  roof. 

In  the  open  passage,  in  the  full  glare 
of  sunlight,  a  woman  was  sitting.  She 
was  busily  at  work  upon  a  piece  of  sewing 
that  lay  in  a  white  heap,  its  coarseness 
concealed  by  distance,  upon  her  knees. 
She  had  not  noticed  the  stranger's  ap- 
proach. The  face  attracted  him  strangely ; 
there  was  a  cameo  delicacy  about  the 
pretty,  pinkish  features,  and  the  October 
sunshine  made  a  warm  sheen  in  the  brown- 
red  hair.  The  face,  the  attitude,  the  half- 
suggestion  of  weariness  in  the  slightly 
drooping  figure,  even  the  gold-red  tints  in 
her  hair,  all  were  in  keeping  with  the 
overcoloured  death  abroad  in  the  hills. 
The  strange  man  studied  the  picture  in- 
tently while  his  horse  went  down  the  little 


1 6  Cinch 

bridle-path  to  the  gate,  his  hoofs  giving 
out  only  a  soft  rustle  among  the  drifted 
leaves  and  dry  grasses.  To  his  restless, 
wandering  heart  it  was  like  heaven ;  the 
restful  sweetness  of  the  sad  young  face 
might  have  belonged  to  the  face  of  a  Ma- 
donna. It  stood  out  in  contrast  against 
his  own  turbulent  nature  as  the  quiet  of 
the  mountains  contrasted  with  the  wild 
Western  life  to  which,  for  eight  homeless, 
danger-crammed  years,  he  had  given  him- 
self. As  he  drew  nearer,  the  horse  set  his 
foot  upon  a  loose  stone ;  the  woman  gave 
a  little  start,  and  looked  up. 

"  Good  mornin',"  said  he,  over  the 
rickety  gate.  "Is  this  where  the  Stampses 
live?" 

"Yes,  Jerry  Stamps  lives  here,"  was 
the  reply.  "  Leastways,"  she  went  on, 
quickly,  "  he  calls  this  home ;  mostly  he's 
to  be  found  at  the  settlement  on  the 
mount'n." 

He  did  not  in  the  least  understand  her 
meaning,  though  he  detected  the  reproach 


Cinch  17 

in  her  voice,  and  noted  the  quick  attempt 
to  conceal  the  rash  and  too  ready  com- 
plaint in  a  show  of  hospitality.  "  Won't 
you-uns  'light  an'  come  in  ?  Jerry'll  be 
along  befo'  long,  an'  while  you're  waitin' 
I'll  knock  you  up  a  snack  fur  yer  dinner." 

There  are  moments  that  come  to  all  of 
us  when  fate  stands  at  the  elbow  of  life, 
ready  to  take  advantage  of  the  next  step 
made ;  "  fateful  moments  "  we  call  them, 
and,  looking  back  upon  them  through  the 
dust  of  after-years,  we  can  trace  all  life, 
for  shade  or  shine,  from  the  step  taken  at 
one  of  these  moments.  It  was  such  a 
moment  with  him  ;  he  hesitated,  —  saw 
her  get  up  and  go  into  the  room  at  the 
left  of  the  passage.  She  was  hiding  her 
sewing,  the  odd  little  heap  of  domestic ; 
he  did  not  know  that  she  tucked  it  care- 
fully under  the  bolster  of  her  bed,  blush- 
ing scarlet  while  she  drew  the  cover 
securely  over  it. 

When  she  went  back  he  had  dis- 
mounted, and  was  coming  down  the  little 


1 8  Cinch 

pretence  of  a  walk  to  the  door.  He  was 
well  dressed.  To  her,  accustomed  only 
to  the  coarse  jeans  of  the  mountains,  he 
was  royally  clad.  A  gaudily  prominent 
chain  depended  from  his  watch-pocket; 
in  the  bosom  of  a  white  shirt  three  golden 
studs  shone  lustrously.  For  a  moment 
she  felt  almost  timid.  But  the  moun- 
taineer is  ever  king  of  his  own  domain, 
ever  the  hospitable  host. 

"  Hadn't!  you  better  put  yer  nag  up  ?  " 
she  asked,  the  red  still  tinging  her  cheeks. 
In  the  eyes  lifted  to  his  he  saw  the  liquid 
lights  come  and  go  with  vitalising  warmth. 

"  No'm,"  said  he.  "  I'll  just  set  a  bit, 
if  you  don't  mind,  and  wait  for  Jerry. 
Thank  you,  ma'am,  but  I  can  get  my 
own  cheer." 

He  dropped  into  the  shuck-bottomed 
chair  with  a  lightness  that  seemed  to  her 
young  experience  the  perfection  of  all 
grace.  It  brought  back  the  fair  days  of 
her  own  first  sweet  youth,  not  long  gone, 
when  she  had  tripped  lightly  over  the 


Cinch  19 

puncheon  floors  to  the  tune  of  "  Rollin' 
River,"  in  far-away  Sequatchie  Valley. 

She  seated  herself  upon  the  doorstep, 
in  the  sunlight,  and  he  saw  the  warm 
sheen  return  to  the  pretty  gold-red  hair, 
coiled  girlishly  upon  the  shapely  small 
head.  For  a  moment  both  were  silent; 
he,  with  wonder  at  the  luck  that  had 
dropped  him  down  in  the  company  of  the 
very  girl,  he  told  himself,  that  he  had 
"  travelled  earth  over  to  find." 

"  Pretty  country  hereabouts,"  he  found 
voice  to  say,  at  last. 

"  Hit's  fair,"  was  the  uncertain  reply. 
"  I  ain't  keerin'  fur  the  mount'n  country 
much.  I'm  valley-born.  I'm  a  S'quatchie 
Valley  gal." 

There  was  the  familiar,  drawling  sweet- 
ness in  her  voice  that  had  tracked  and 
trailed  his  memory  like  a  sleuth-hound  in 
all  his  weary  wanderings,  in  his  yearnings 
for  home,  and  had  driven  him  back  at 
last,  homesick,  heart-hungry  for  the  scenes 
that  had  surrounded  his  first  manhood. 


20  Cinch 

He  talked  only  enough  to  keep  her  talk- 
ing, —  the  voice  was  heaven's  music  to 
him. 

"  Yer  horse  looks  like  it  might  'a*  come 
a  toler'ble  fur  ride,"  she  said,  with  a  glance 
at  the  wind-blown,  foam-flecked  animal 
fastened  to  the  low  fence  palings. 

"He  ain't  come  so  far;  he's  just  from 
Cleveland  down  here  ;  he  wasn't  much 
shakes  of  a  horse  to  begin  with,"  he  told 
her. 

"  Air  you-uns  from  Cleveland  ?  " 

"  Texas." 

"  From  whar  ?  " 

Had  he  said  from  Paradise  she  would 
not  have  been  more  surprised.  Texas, — 
that  far-off  myth-land  of  the  mountaineer. 
He  laughed  aloud  at  her  wonder ;  he 
knew  that  to  the  people  of  her  class  Texas 
was  the  limitation  of  all  distance,  —  almost 
of  all  life,  indeed. 

"  Lord,  I  know  just  how  you  feel,"  he 
declared.  "  I  useter  feel  the  same  way  till 
I  went  there,  eight  years  ago.  Now  it  ain't 


Cinch  21 

no  more  than  a  canter  over  inter  Kintucky 
or  Alabama.  Still,"  he  modified,  "  lookin' 
at  it  one  way,  it  seems  a  good  bit  off,  too. 
When  a  fellow  gets  homesick  it  seems  like 
the  tag  end  o'  creation.  And  I  always  was 
homesick  ;  I  always  wanted  to  come  back. 
I'm  mount'n  born.  Me  an'  Jerry  useter 
play  together,  —  played  marbles  in  this 
very  yard ;  and  when  we  got  bigger  we 
fished  together  in  Sugar  Creek  many  a 
time ;  to  say  nothin'  of  Hiwassee  River. 
And  I  just  couldn't  forgit  it.  I  was 
always  hankerin'  for  the  mount'ns." 

The  wonder  in  her  eyes  gave  place  to 
incredulity.  "  'Pears  to  me,"  she  declared, 
"as  I'd  shake  the  dust  of  'em  off  mighty 
quick  if/  could  git  to  Texas." 

Poor,  pretty  young  thing  ;  there  was  a 
wound  somewhere  in  the  young  heart  that 
could  not  quite  hush  its  plaining.  He  set 
himself  to  find  it,  to  learn  the  nature  of 
the  hurt,  after  which  he  meant  to  look 
to  a  remedy. 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  to  Texas  ?  " 


22  Cinch 

he  asked.  "  It's  mighty  far  an'  lone- 
some." 

"  Would  I  ?  Lonesome  ?  Psher  !  / 
know  lonesome." 

There  was  no  need  of  further  words. 
"  /  know  lonesome."  That  expressed  it 
all ;  the  longing  and  loneliness  of  her  life. 
He  felt  its  narrowness  and  pitied  her,  — 
he  who  had  seen  Texas. 

"  Yet,"  he  said,  as  though  following  out 
his  own  thought,  "  it's  lonesome  ;  a  body 
can't  content  hisse'f  to  love  the  levels  when 
he's  once  knowed  the  heights.  You'd  be 
honin'  for  the  hills  again  in  no  time.  You'd 
soon  be  sorrowin'  for  Tennessee.  You'd 
die  out  there  for  the  sight  of  a  tree" 

"  Sorrer  ain't  killin'."  There  was  knowl- 
edge, founded  upon  experience,  in  the 
simple  declaration.  "Sorrer  ain't  killin'. 
If  it  ware,  the  graveyards  'ud  be  full." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  distant  peaks  ; 
the  little  complaint  seemed  to  be  made  to 
them,  the  veiled,  unresponsive  hills,  rather 
than  to  him.  Yet  his  large  man's  heart 


Cinch  23 

went  out  to  her  in  sympathy.  To  her, 
trouble  was  imaginary,  of  course.  She 
was  too  young  to  have  felt  the  real  fangs 
of  it  ;  yet,  to  youth,  pain  is  pain,  whether 
it  be  real  or  fancied  ;  and  so  he  fancied  he 
pitied  her,  felt  for  her,  wondered  what 
petty,  girlish  grief  had  unblinded  her 
young  eyes  to  the  heavy  truth  that  "sor- 
row doesn't  kill." 

"  Do  you  live  here  ?  "  Even  as  he 
asked  the  question  he  remembered  that 
she  had  said  she  was  "  a  Sequatchie 
Valley  girl."  Her  reply  quite  startled 
him. 

"  Yes,  I  live  here,  of  course.  I  am  Jerry 
Stampses  wife." 


He  had  supposed  her  a  young  girl,  a 
visitor  perhaps,  perhaps  a  kinswoman  ;  at 
most  a  poor  girl  earning  a  home  for  her- 
self by  working  out,  among  friends. 

"  I'm  Jerry's  wife,"  —  he  scarcely  heard 
her,  —  "married  better'n  a  year  ago.  If 
you  don't  believe  it,  look  —  "  She  had 


24  Cinch 

begun  to  unbutton  the  wristband  of  her 
sleeve ;  there  was  a  bitter  note  in  her 
voice,  a  hard  line  about  the  mouth  that 
should  have  known  only  girlish  gladness. 
A  moment  she  hesitated,  pushed  the 
sleeve  slightly  up,  hesitated  again,  then,  as 
though  ashamed  of  her  impetuous  confi- 
dence, drew  it  quickly  down,  buttoned  the 
band  again,  and  laughed. 

A  harsh,  mirthless  laugh  it  was,  that 
made  him  shudder,  and  think  of  a  young 
fellow  the  cowboys  had  hung  one  night, 
away  out  on  the  Rio  Grande.  He  was  a 
lad  just  come  out  from  Kentucky,  and 
brave  as  the  bravest.  A  belt  containing 
money,  belonging  to  one  of  the  gang,  was 
missing  ;  they  had  searched  for  it  for  three 
days,  and  finally  charged  the  Kentucky 
lad  with  having  stolen  it.  Proud,  hot- 
blooded,  and  defiant,  he  had  sworn  he 
would  die  before  he  would  submit  to  be- 
ing searched.  And  they  had  hung  him  ; 
they  had  not  really  intended  to  hang  him, 
only,  they  said,  "  to  scare  the  little  fool 


Cinch  25 

into  measures."  Instead  of  being  fright- 
ened when  they  led  the  pony  under  a  limb 
and  adjusted  the  rope  about  his  neck,  he 
had  laughed,  and  flung  himself  from  the 
saddle ;  cheating  them,  he  had  believed,  of 
their  triumph.  The  next  day  the  belt  was 
found  where  the  owner  had  secreted  and 
then  forgotten  it.  And  in  the  dead  boy's 
trunk  they  found  a  little  diary,  kept  in  a 
boy's  unformed  hand.  There  were  pages 
and  pages  of  impassioned  nonsense;  then 
came  other  pages  of  wild  ravings  because 
of  some  one's  falseness, —  some  one  he  had 
loved.  Ah  Christ !  that  love,  humanity's 
comforter,  can  still  be  the  root  of  her 
keenest  agony.  The  wild  determination  to 
run  away,  go  West  and  be  a  cowboy.  But 
it  was  the  last  entry  had  caught  and  held 
their  hearts  :  "  Life  holds  for  me  no  hope 
so  sweet  as  that  of  laying  it  down"  After 
all,  they  had  but  given  him  that  which  he 
sought, — death. 

And  this  girl-wife  of  Jerry  Stamps's  had 
recalled  to  him  the  young  martyr.      She, 


26  Cinch 

too,  had  learned  that  laying  life  down  is 
not  always  its  hardest  feature. 

She  drew  her  sleeve  down,  holding  it 
fast,  lest  the  inclination  to  disloyal  confi- 
dence return  with  irresistible  force. 

"  Shucks  ! "  she  exclaimed,  when  the 
silence  began  to  grow  embarrassing,  "  it 
ain't  anything.  An'  yonder  comes  Jerry 
down  the  road.  I  can't  see  him  yet,  but 
I  can  hear  his  horse.  Thar  ain't  another 
horse  critter  in  this  country  comes  galli- 
vantin'  down  the  mount'n  like  Jerry 
Stampses.  I  reckin  Jerry  must  'a'  scented 
comp'ny  an'  come  home ;  it  couldn't  'a' 
been  dinner  he  smelt,  fur  I  ain't  teched  it, 
more'n  ter  put  on  the  punkin." 

She  went  back  into  the  shed-room,  leav- 
ing him  to  make  his  own  introduction  to 
her  husband  :  though,  as  for  that,  he  had 
forgotten  to  tell  her  who  he  was  and  why 
he  had  called.  He  had  cared  only  for  her 
story  ;  his  own  appeared  as  nothing  against 
the  petty  misery  of  hers.  He  wanted  to 
tell  her  not  to  bother  with  getting  dinner 


Cinch  27 

for  him,  but  she  had  not  given  him  the 
opportunity  ;  already  he  could  hear  her 
among  the  pots  and  pans,  and  already 
the  man  of  the  house  was  coming  across 
the  yard 

The  visitor  rose,  hat  in  hand,  and  stood 
waiting.  A  moment,  and  the  tall,  slender 
figure  of  Jerry  Stamps  cast  its  gigantic 
shadow  upon  the  floor.  A  bloated,  reck- 
less face,  a  boyish  face  despite  the  marks 
of  dissipation,  met  his.  The  two  regarded 
each  other  intently,  before  the  stranger 
extended  his  hand,  and  with  a  low,  chuck- 
ling laugh  said : 

"  Howdy,  Jerry,  —  if  you  haven't  for- 
got old  friends  and  kinfolks." 

"  Bob  Binder,  or  I'll  be  blowed,"  ex- 
claimed Stamps.  "  Whar'd  yer  come 
from,  what  made  yer  stay  so  long,  an' 
how  long  ware  yer  gittin'  here  ?  If  this 
don't  beat  my  time  !  Settin'  here  gossip- 
pin'  just  like  yer  useter  do  eight  year  ago. 
Whar'd  yer  come  from,  anyhow  ?  " 

"  Texas." 


28  Cinch 

"  Texas  ?  Hell,  yer  better  say ;  thar 
ain't  no  sech  great  differ'nce  as  /  can 
make  out.  Had  yer  dinner?" 

"No,  but  it's  no  matter.  Don't  let 
your  wife  go  to  any  trouble  for  me" 

"  Waal,  she  may  go  ter  a  little  fur  me, 
then:  I'm  hungrier' n  a  b'ar.  Hurry  up 
thar,  Belle ;  thar  ain't  but  twenty-fo' 
hours  in  a  day." 

He  dropped  down  upon  the  step  where 
she  had  sat,  and  from  the  kitchen  Isabel 
could  hear  their  talk ;  now  low  and  rem- 
iniscent, now  merrily  resonant  with  some 
gay  experiences  of  the  Western  plain. 
Once,  when  her  husband's  laugh  echoed 
through  the  passage,  she  paused  in  the 
work  of  slicing  potatoes  for  the  frying- 
skillet,  and  drew  up  her  sleeve.  A  blu- 
ish, sullen-looking  bruise  shone  revealed 
against  the  pink-white  flesh.  The  laugh- 
ter seemed  to  have  set  the  wound 
stinging. 

"  I  ware  about  ter  show  him  that"  she 
sobbed,  "  ter  prove  ter  him  I  ware  a  law- 


Cinch  29 

fill  wife.  Any  fool  'ud  know  a  woman 
wouldn't  take  a  lick  like  that  off  any  but 
her  husband.  No  other  man  have  the 
right  ter  so  abuse  her."  Alas  !  that  man 
should  so  mistake  his  privileges.  Her 
tears  fell  softly,  unchecked ;  the  bitterest 
of  them  were  for  the  reflection  that  she 
was  a  wife  of  but  one  year. 

"  Been  cowboyin'  ?  "  Her  husband's 
voice  drowned  the  soft  sound  of  her 
sobbing. 

"  Some." 

How  restful  this  new  tone  that  had 
come  into  her  life  for  a  moment.  And 
how  pleasant  the  outspoken  sympathy  she 
had  recognised  in  his  eyes  searching  out 
her  sorrow,  —  how  temptingly,  ruinously 
pleasant. 

"  I  had  a  ranch  for  three  year,  out  on 
the  Rio  Grande,  an'  made  myse'f  a  bit  of 
a  start.  Then  I  went  to  San  Antony,  an' 
Houston,  and  Dallis.  Saw  a  bit  o'  the 
world." 

"  What    business    d'ye   foller   all    that 


30  Cinch 

time  ?  Must  V  done  something  jedgin' 
from  the  size  o'  yer  watch-chain." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  before 
her  husband's  laugh  again  reached  the 
ears  of  the  woman  in  the  kitchen.  "  I 
see,"  said  he.  "  Been  suckin'  of  yer  paws, 
I  reckin.  What  the  hell  fetched  ye  back 
here  ?  Anybody  as  can  make  money,  buy 
gold  chains  an'  store  clothes,  an'  can  see 
the  sights  o'  the  world,  ter  come  a-mosin' 
back  here  amongst  hedgehogs  an'  screech 
owels  air  pretty  bad  off  fur  gumption, 
that  all." 

"  Wall,"  said  Binder,  "  as  I  was  tellin' 
your  wife,  I  got  homesick." 

" '  Homesick,'  hell !  " 

"  Fell  to  hankerin'  after  the  mount'n  ; 
the  run  of  water  in  a  laurel  thicket ;  the 
feel  of  a  boulder  under  my  feet ;  the  sight 
of  a  tree." 

"  Did,  eh  ?  Told  Is'bel  that  ?  I'll  be 
boun'  she  didn't  respon'  ter  no  sech  slack 
jaw  as  that.  Said  shed  like  ter  git  a 
chance  ter  see  Texas ;  she'd  like  ter  git 


Cinch  3 1 

foot   loose   o'    Tennessee   sile  one  time. 
Oh,  I  know  Belle." 

"  I  tell  you,  Jerry,"  the  visitor  quietly 
ignored  the  outbreak,  "  I  have  laid  'wake 
nights  in  the  corral  long  o'  the  horses, 
with  the  stars  shinin'  down  on  me,  that 
lonesome  that  I  actually  cried.  Cried  for 
the  sound  o'  the  wary  wind  in  the  tops  of 
a  Tennessee  cedar,  man  as  I  was.  Think 
of  it :  long,  level  miles  o'  land,  nothin' 
but  land,  and  wavin'  grass  that  made  your 
brain  rock ;  sunshine  until  your  very  eye- 
balls blistered.  Then  nights  so  still  you 
could  a'most  hear  your  own  ghost  go  by ; 
moonlight  so  constant  an'  so  bright,  it  re- 
minded you  of  them  midnight  suns  you've 
heard  tell  of  off  yonder  in  Norway  some- 
whers.  Why,  it's  most  daylight  on  them 
Texas  prairies  before  the  moon  goes 
down.  An'  fires,  —  great  God  !  they  swoop 
down,  an'  skit  across  them  prairies,  an' 
sweep  your  ranch  off  the  face  o'  the  earth 
in  half  a  minute.  Northers,  chills, 
tarantulas,  horse-thieves :  that's  Texas." 


32  Cinch 

"  An'  what  air  Tennessee  ?  "  demanded 
Stamps.  "  A  bed  o'  rock ;  a  chunk  o' 
mount'ns,  with  ribs  o'  iron  and  belly  o' 
coal  that's  bought  up  in  a  lump  by  the 
rich  syndicates,  who  set  the  pore  ter  work 
it  at  a  dollar  a  day,  an'  a  passel  o'  stinkin' 
convicts  fur  comp'ny.  A  little  runt  of  a 
corn  fiel'  now'n  then  over  which  state  an 
gov'mint  air  wras'lin'  like  the  devil ;  what's 
the  gallon  o'  whiskey  come  ter  after  state 
an*  gov'mint  have  had  their  pull  at  the 
kaig  ?  Sometimes  the  kaig  air  left  fur  the 
owner  o'  the  corn  fiel',  but  more  of'n  he 
gits  the  bare  cob  of  a  stopper  fur  his  sheer. 
Taxes,  an'  trusts,  an'  syndicates,  an'  booms, 
an'  starvation;  that's  Tennessee.  Damned 
if  hell  ain't  healthier,  or  Texas  either." 

How  different  to  the  other,  the  wan- 
derer from  home.  The  injustice  of  the  ac- 
cusation hurt  his  very  soul.  His  voice, 
even,  when  he  repudiated  the  calumny, 
had  a  softer  tone  ;  unconsciously  he  fell 
into  the  dialect  of  his  people,  which  he 
had  lost  among  his  Western  associates. 


Cinch  33 

"  She  ware  allus  mighty  sweet  ter  me," 
he  declared.  "  Tennessee  ware  allus  home 
ter  me,  Texas  or  no  Texas.  I  honed  fur 
her  like  a  man  hones  for  his  wife  an' 
babies.  Why,  once  when  I  were  cowboyin* 
it  out  on  the  Rio  Grande  I  rid  thirty  mile 
ter  hear  a  Metherdis'  preach,  beca'se  he 
allus  preached  about  the  mount'n.  I  didn't 
tell  the  boys,  —  they'd  'a'  laffed  me  out 
o'  Texas.  I  lied  ter  them ;  told  'em  I  ware 
goin'  court'n'.  But  I  went  ter  meet'n', 
ter  hear  the  old  Metherdis'  talk  about  the 
mount'n.  He  give  out  thar  that  day  that 
Christ  allus  loved  the  mount'n  might'ly, 
an'  that  he  useter  go  off  an'  lonesome 
on  it,  all  by  hisse'f.  An'  seem  ter  me  I 
knowed  precisely  how  he  felt.  Whilst  he 
ware  talkin'  I  could  see  Frog  Mount'n, 
plain  as  day.  An'  I  got  ter  honin'  fur 
home  till  I  fell  away  ter  skin  an'  bone,  an' 
couldn't  sleep  o'  nights.  Lord  !  Lord  ! 
I'd  'a'  died  if  I'd  knowed  I  couldn't  come 
back  to  they-uns" 

He  waved  his  hand,  a  kind  of  salute  to 


34  Cinch 

the  sombre,  mist-veiled  peaks.  His  dark, 
deeply  set  eyes  kindled  with  the  joy  of 
nearness.  Life  might  offer  broader  vistas, 
but  none  more  fair,  more  dear. 

When  Isabel  called  them  to  dinner, 
they  kept  right  on  with  their  talk,  Jerry 
ignoring  her  presence,  and  she  refusing  to 
allow  Binder  to  draw  her  into  the  conver- 
sation, though  she  knew  that  he  talked  for 
her.  For  her  were  recounted  the  mid- 
night rides  across  the  prairies,  the  race 
from  Indians,  the  capture  of  wild  horses. 
For  her  he  described  the  wonderful  cities 
he  had  visited,  the  magnificent  buildings, 
museums,  theatres,  churches.  He  even 
attempted  a  description  of  the  fine  women 
he  had  seen,  the  cotton  fields,  acres  and 
acres,  white  as  the  drifted  snow,  and  corn, 
bare  miles  of  it  without  stump  or  stone  to 
bar  or  break  the  level  beauty  of  the  pic- 
ture. He  was  rewarded  with  a  quick 
brightening  of  her  eyes,  a  smile,  when  he 
told  of  the  "  furbelows  an'  fine  fixin's  "  of 
the  women ;  silk  skirts  that  trailed  a  yard 


Cinch  35 

on  the  floor,  and  hats  loaded  with  feathers, 
costing,  to  her  simple  experience,  a  small 
fortune.  It  was  worth  a  trip  to  Texas  to 
be  able  to  bring  back  the  smiles  to  that 
poor  little  face. 

"How  long  ye  goin'  ter  stay?"  said 
Stamps.  "  Long  'nough  to  give  yer  nag 
a  bite,  I  reckin." 

He  had  not  intended  stopping  for  any 
great  time,  but  the  pathetic  little  face  of 
his  cousin's  wife,  repeating  with  silent 
eagerness  the  question  her  husband  had 
asked,  bewitching  him  with  its  unspoken 
pleading,  held  him  with  a  fascination  as 
new  to  him  as  it  was  delightful.  Was 
Jerry  really  unkind  to  her,  he  wondered ; 
was  he  mean,  brutal  ?  Or  was  it  neglect 
alone  that  had  printed  that  hopelessness 
in  the  fair  young  face  ?  He  decided  to 
stay  awhile ;  at  all  events  until  he  had  sat- 
isfied himself  that  she  preferred  to  unravel 
her  life's  tangle  without  his  assistance. 

"  Well,"  he  replied  to  his  cousin's  ques- 
tion, "  if  you've  got  a  spare  peg  for  my 


36  Cinch 

hat,  I'll  hang  it  up  a  day  or  two.  If  you 
haven't  I'll  stop  down  ter  uncle  Silas 
Moore's  down  the  valley ;  or  else  over  to 
Cleveland." 

"Silas fiddlesticks!  "  said  Stamps.  "  Stay 
right  whar  ye  air ;  if  ye  can  put  up  with 
poor  folks'  livin'.  I'll  hitch  up  an'  go  fur 
yer  duds  after  dinner.  Thar's  the  whole 
o'  the  roof-room  fur  yer,  and,  if  that  is  too 
cramped,  thar's  the  horse  lot,  an'  you  can 
occupy  hit,  Texas  fashion." 

He  laughed  aloud  at  his  own  smartness. 
He  was  not  sorry  to  have  his  fine  kinsman 
stay ;  the  latter's  nimble  tongue  and  rare 
experiences  rendered  him  particularly 
pleasant  company. 

"  I  guess  I'll  choose  the  roof-room," 
said  Binder.  "  Say,  Jerry,  what's  become 
o'  the  old  cabin  us  boys  useter  sleep  in? 
Useter  stand  in  the  front  yard." 

"  Waal,  the  last  time  I  see  that  cabin, 
it  ware  only  yistiddy  evenin*  ;  it  had  been 
invited  ter  a  back  seat,  an'  ware  occupied 
by  as  likely  a  fam'ly  o'  gopher  rats  as  ye 


Cinch  37 

ever  set  eyes  on.  The  ole  man  gopher 
ware  settin'  on  the  do'step  pickin'  his 
teeth  with  a  cedar  splinter,  an'  a-jawin'  at 
the  ole  'oman  fit  ter  kill." 

"  Is  the  door  locked  ?  " 

"  Locked  ?  Who'd  ye  'spect  ter  lock 
it  ?  It  ain't  been  locked  sence  Bragg 
busted  of  it  open,  endurin'  of  the  war, 
ter  git  we-uns's  meat  out  fur  the  rebels  ter 
feed  on.  Locked  ?  /  say  !  " 

He  got  up,  pushed  his  chair  back,  and 
crammed  his  hat  down  upon  his  long, 
tangled  hair. 

"  Look  after  Bob's  nag,  Belle,"  he  said, 
to  his  wife.  "  I'm  goin'  ter  hitch  up  the 
wagon." 

"  I  can  attend  to  my  own  horse," 
Binder  interposed.  "An*  I'd  rather  go 
for  my  trunk,  too.  There's  valu'bles  in 
it." 

"Valu'bles  ? "  laughed  Stamps.  "  Paw 
suckin'  must  pay  out  in  Texas.  Can't 
yer  put  a  feller  on  ter  yer  tricks  ?  Come, 
Bob,  now  what  game  did  yer  play  ?  " 


38  Cinch 

"  We  played  cinch.  I'll  learn  you  how 
to  play,  if  you  want." 

A  teacup  slipped  from  Isabel's  hands, 
and  crashed  upon  the  hard,  puncheon 
floor  into  a  dozen  pieces.  Had  Stamps 
been  an  interpreter  of  the  human  counte- 
nance, he  must  have  seen  the  pleading  in 
the  glance  his  wife  gave  their  guest.  But 
Stamps  saw  nothing  but  the  fascination  of 
a  new  game  of  chance,  and  with  the  gam- 
bler's greed  he  was  ready  to  seize  upon  it. 
He  slipped  his  arm  through  Binder's,  and 
the  two  walked  off  together,  —  gamblers 
both,  to  the  heart's  core. 

When  Binder's  trunk  had  been  put 
away  in  the  spare  room,  and  Isabel  had 
cleared  away  the  supper  things,  by  the 
light  of  a  dripping  tallow  candle  they 
had  their  first  game  of  cinch.  It  was  a 
four-handed  game,  but  Binder  explained 
that  it  could  be  played  with  two  dummy 
hands  until  Stamps  could  become  ac- 
quainted with  it. 


Cinch  39 

"  Then  we'll  play  with  the  boys  at  the 
settlement,  maybe.  Unless  cousin  Belle 
here'd  like  to  take  a  hand." 

A  pallor  crept  over  the  face  lifted  for  a 
moment  from  the  sewing  upon  her  lap, 
and  she  got  up  quickly,  to  leave  the 
room. 

"  I  ain't  playin'  o'  no  cards,  wryse'f," 
she  said,  "  an'  thar'd  never  be  none  played 
in  my  house,  —  if  I  had  a  house." 

"  Pity  ye  ain't  got  none,"  Stamps 
retorted,  as  the  door  closed  upon  her. 

It  was  an  every-night  thing.  Jerry 
resented  Isabel's  opposition  to  the  game 
as  an  insult  to  his  guest,  and  at  last  she 
learned  to  be  silent.  He  even  forced  her 
to  sit  by  while  they  two  played.  He  gave 
no  further  heed  to  her,  however,  and  was 
ignorant  that  she  paled  and  flushed, 
trembled  and  quaked,  under  the  steady, 
searching  eyes  of  the  man  calling  himself 
a  Texan.  Not  that  she  was  afraid  of  him. 
It  was  herself  she  feared ;  her  own  poor, 
starved  little  heart,  aching  and  breaking 


40  Cinch 

with  its  own  desolation.  His  eyes  were 
foil  of  the  unspoken  sympathy  her  life 
yearned  for ;  she  had  but  to  respond  once 
to  the  glance  she  dared  not  interpret,  in 
order  to  have  the  wild,  passionate  devo- 
tion her  girlhood  had  dreamed  of,  her 
wifehood  missed,  poured  at  her  feet.  He 
understood  her  thoroughly ;  and,  while 
he  played  to  the  husband's  passion,  he 
played  upon  the  wife's  loneliness.  At 
times  a  great  pity  for  her  would  spring 
up  in  his  heart;  and  more  than  once, 
while  the  beautiful  Indian  summer  drifted 
into  the  desolate  winter,  he  resolved  to 
go  away  and  leave  her  to  work  out  the 
riddle  of  neglected  wifehood,  as  neglected 
wives  must,  alone.  Then  her  sweet  face 
would  beam  upon  him,  and  he  would  de- 
clare that  it  was  for  her  good  that  he 
stayed  on ;  for  her  good  that  he  was 
opening  to  her  profligate  young  husband 
another  road  to  ruin.  He  saw  her  grow- 
ing whiter,  frailer,  more  silent  every  day ; 
and  thought  how  upon  the  warm,  sun- 


Cinch      .  41 

flooded  prairies  of  Texas  his  affection 
would  woo  the  roses  back  to  the  thin 
cheeks,  the  smiles  to  the  colourless  lips. 
His  heart  yearned  for  her,  ached  to  take 
her  away  from  the  daily  death  she  suffered. 

She  had  not  been,  like  her  husband, 
bewildered  by  his  wealth  and  show.  She 
might  have  been,  had  she,  like  him,  had 
a  craving  for  such.  But  she  did  not  have ; 
yet  had  he  assailed  her  chiefest  weakness, 
also,  her  craving  for  affection.  If  he 
could  have  assured  her  a  taste  of  the  real 
blessedness  of  the  wifehood  that  had  been 
her  dream  and  her  delusion,  she  would 
have  followed  him  to  the  earth's  ends 
gladly. 

One  afternoon  he  came  upon  her  as  he 
had  seen  her  first,  in  the  sunshiny  pas- 
sage, the  little  bundle  of  sewing  upon  her 
knees,  her  hands  folded  idly  upon  the 
small,  white  heap,  her  fathomless  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  distant  peaks  of  moun- 
tains. Jerry  had  been  off  on  a  drunken 
spree  for  three  days. 


42  Cinch 

Isabel  started,  and  crushed  the  coarse 
domestic  under  her  palms  when  Binder 
stopped  at  her  side  and  stood  looking 
down  upon  her  with  that  strange,  com- 
pelling gleam  in  his  eyes. 

"  Cousin  Belle,"  said  he,  "  this  is  a 
mighty  hard  road  you  have  elected  to 
travel  in." 

Her  bitterness  of  heart  found  outlet  in 
words  at  last :  "  This  here  cinch  o'  yours 
ain't  makin'  of  it  any  more  easier,  as  / 
can  see,"  she  replied. 

He  placed  his  hand  lightly  upon  her 
bright,  bowed  head,  stroking  the  soft 
waves  gently. 

"  Ain't  it,  Belle  ?  "  he  said.  «  Then  I'll 
ought  to  go  away,  an'  not  bother  you 
about  it.  I  meant  it  for  good ;  I  swear 
it.  I  meant  it ;  I  played  it  so's  I  could 
stay  along  here,  an'  kind  o'  look  after 
you,  Belle.  'Feared  to  me  you  war  lone- 
some. I  didn't  mean  to  worry  of  you, 
cousin,  an'  I'll  go  away  if  you  say  so ; 
to-day,  now" 


Cinch  43 

Without  a  word,  she  seized  his  hand 
and  carried  it  to  her  lips,  held  it  there, 
and  burst  into  tears. 

So  in  the  heart  of  a  neglected  woman  is 
one  touch  of  tenderness  enough  to  sweep 
away  the  barrier  of  all  bitterness. 

"  Never  you  mind,  now,"  he  said,  reas- 
suringly. "  Don't  you  worry.  I'm 
a-thinkin'  of  how  to  pleasure  you,  con- 
stant. That's  what  I'm  here  for,  just  to 
help  you.  You  just  trust  to  me,  cousin 
Belle." 

"  I  can't,"  she  sobbed.  "  I  can't  never 
trust  ter  nobody  any  more.  My  trust  air 
all  killed,  killed,  killed.  It's  been  so  long 
since  anybody  tried  to  pleasure  me,  'pears 
like  I've  clear  forgot  the  feel  of  pleasure." 

He  took  her  hands  in  his,  pressing  her 
head  against  his  side.  There  was  an  odour 
of  musk  in  his  clothes.  Even  in  her  sorrow 
she  noticed  the  perfume,  and  thought  what 
a  great  thing  it  was  to  be  a  man,  and  free, 
—  free  to  go  to  Texas,  where  life  was  all 
glitter  and  perfume. 


44  Cinch 

She  did  not  observe  that  the  bundle  of 
work  had  slipped  from  her  lap  and  lay 
upon  the  floor.  But  Binder,  whose  keen 
eyes  lost  but  little,  saw  the  scrap  of  domes- 
tic as  it  fell ;  shaken  out  of  its  wrinkles, 
he  saw  it  take  the  shape  of  a  little  shirt, 
a  tiny  baby  garment,  and  he  understood, 
for  the  first  time,  that  she  was  soon  to  be- 
come a  mother.  For  a  moment  he  was 
dumb.  That  little  muslin  shape,  telling 
in  unspoken  pathos  the  story  of  the  un- 
tried, unshared,  uncomforted  motherhood, 
shamed  and  silenced  him.  Then  his  hot 
anger  was  kindled  against  the  man  who  was 
to  be  father  to  the  little  unborn  babe.  To 
be  alone,  abused,  neglected,  at  a  time  like 
this  !  no  wonder  she  went  about  the  place 
like  a  doomed  soul,  ready  to  accept  any 
refuge  offered. 

"  I'm  going  to  fetch  you  away  from 
here,  Belle,"  Binder  broke  out,  fiercely. 
"  I've  heard  his  talk  to  you  when  he  was 
drunk ;  an'  when  he's  sober,  he's  off, 
neglectin'  you  shameful.  I'm  goin'  to 


Cinch  45 

fetch  you  away  from  here,  away  from 
Tennessee ;  away  to  Texas,  where  they 
string  up  a  fellow  for  wife-beatin',  same's 
a  bologna  sausage.  I've  got  money, 
Belle,  lots  of  it;  enough  to  give  you 
rest  the  balance  of  your  days.  You'll 
go  back  with  me,  won't  you,  Belle  ? " 

Go  ?  The  temptation  lay  before  her 
weary  eyes  a  golden  pathway,  straight 
from  her  darkness  into  day's  perfection. 
Safety,  shelter,  peace,  love.  Women  will 
barter  heaven  for  these  things. 

"I  —  dunno,"  she  faltered.  "I  ware 
not  thinkin'  o'  that.  I  dunno  what 
Jerry'd  do  if  he  knew  this.  Kill  me 
plumb,  I  reckin." 

"  I'll  make  him  give  his  consent." 

"Make  Jerry  Stamps?  "  She  gave  her 
head  an  unconscious  little  lift  that  made 
him  laugh  outright. 

"  Well,  I  can"  he  said.  "  I've  got  the 
screw  will  press  him.  Will  you  go  if  he 
gives  his  consent?" 

He  saw  the  hesitation,  the  wavering ;  the 


46  Cinch 

temptation  had  its  charms.  He  slipped 
his  arm  about  her  shoulders  and  with  a 
sudden  swift  movement  stooped  and 
kissed  her,  full  upon  the  parted,  trem- 
bling lips. 

The  effect  was  electric ;  she  bounded 
like  a  startled  fawn  to  her  feet,  eyes  ablaze, 
the  delicate  nostrils  distended,  lifted  her 
arms,  dropped  them ;  the  white  lid  fell 
under  his  passionate  glance,  and  she  saw 
the  little  brown  domestic  shirt  lying  upon 
the  floor,  between  them. 

The  rebound  came  with  quick,  delicious 
thrills,  that  swept  through  her  whole  body. 
The  motherhood  awoke,  and  seemed  to 
whisper  presciently  of  the  craving  for 
affection  that  was  soon  to  be  satisfied, 
when  baby  fingers  should  press  the  no 
longer  lonely  bosom.  She  shook  off  his 
touch  upon  her  shoulder,  stooping  to 
regain  her  treasure : 

"  I  dunno,"  she  said,  sharply.  "  I 
dunno  anything.  I  don't  even  know 
what  I  ware  sayin'  of." 


Cinch  47 

She  covered  her  blushes  with  both 
hands,  the  little  shirt  against  her  cheek, 
and  staggered  away  from  him.  He  heard 
the  latch  fall  heavily  into  its  place  as  the 
door  of  her  room  closed  upon  her. 

For  days  he  did  not  see  her  again,  ex- 
cept when  Jerry  was  about.  And  the 
autumn  faded ;  the  time  of  Christmas 
drew  near,  and  with  it  came  the  time  of 
her  deliverance. 

He  thought  she  grew  sadder,  more 
thoughtfully  quiet ;  she  no  longer  ran 
away  when  she  found  herself  alone  with 
him.  She  was  too  weary  to  contend 
against  her  temptation.  And  he  offered 
it  her  constantly,  in  a  thousand  little  care- 
ful acts  which  her  condition  rendered  her 
doubly  capable  of  appreciating.  But  when 
he  pleaded  with  her  to  fly  with  him,  she 
always  gave  him  the  same  uncertain  reply  : 

"  Wait  till  after  Christmas  ;  I'll  tell  you 
after  Christmas." 

"  But  if  I  get  his  consent  ? "  he  urged, 
shrewdly. 


48  Cinch 

"  His  consent  means  that  he  flings  me 
off,"  was  her  thought.  Then  aloud  :  "  Oh, 
yes !  I  reckin  I'll  have  ter  go  if  he  gives 
his  consent,  —  after  Chris'mas." 

The  hours  were  days  while  he  waited, 
and  the  effort  to  keep  up  the  good  feeling 
between  the  husband  and  himself  became 
indeed  an  effort.  Yet  he  never  once  left 
off  trying  to  hold  the  confidence  of  the 
man  whose  peace  he  was  about  to  slay. 
He  held  him  in  his  toils  as  a  snake  holds 
its  victim.  If  Binder  was  late  joining 
him  at  the  store,  where  they  played 
cinch  with  the  men  there,  Jerry  would 
walk  the  floor,  and  rage  for  him  like 
a  youth  for  his  first  sweetheart.  The 
game  ended,  he  would  call  to  him,  "  Tell 
us  about  the  night  ye  rode  ter  the  ranch 
before  the  prairie  fire,  Bob ; "  and  he 
would  enjoy  the  interest  expressed  in  the 
recital  as  keenly  as  though  it  had  been  his 
own  story  they  were  applauding.  And 
all  the  while  he  drank,  drank,  drank ;  with 
his  last  glass  reminding  Binder  to  take  him 


Cinch  49 

home  to  bed  all  right.  There  was  scarcely 
a  night  that  he  was  not  in  his  power; 
scarcely  a  night  that  he  could  not  have 
dropped  him  off  the  bluff,  and  had  a 
dozen  witnesses  to  swear  he  was  too 
drunk  to  have  walked  down  the  path 
without  falling  off  the  mountain  side.  But 
he  restrained  himself;  he  was  waiting  to 
get  the  consent  without  which  Isabel 
would  refuse  to  go,  —  waiting  for  that, 
and  for  Christmas.  She  had  stipulated 
Christmas,  "  after  Christmas."  He  did 
not  know  that  she  was  waiting  for  the 
baby,  and  the  effect  its  coming  might 
work. 

As  the  blessed  season  drew  nearer  and 
more  near,  his  impatience  became  torture. 
There  were  days  he  did  not  eat,  nights 
when  he  thought  his  brain  was  giving  way. 
And  good  St.  Hilary's  cradle  did  not 
swing  within  the  radius  of  his  grasp,  to 
rock  him  back  to  reason. 

The  night  before  Christmas  he  sat  with 
the  men  in  the  back  room  of  the  settle- 


50  Cinch 

ment  store,  among  mackerel  and  coffee 
scents,  playing  his  last  game  of  cinch. 
Others  came  in  and  went  out,  or  sat  about 
among  the  boxes,  listening  to  the  talk, — 
watching  the  game. 

He  had  not  seen  Isabel  for  five  days, 
having  absented  himself  from  the  house 
that  she  might  feel  the  full  weight  of  her 
aloneness  before  he  put  to  her  his  final 
offer  of  escape.  But  he  had  calculated  as 
man  calculates,  —  leaving  out  God,  who 
stands  beyond  man  ;  and  leaving  out  the 
unexpected,  which,  they  tell  us,  is  that 
which  always  happens. 

He  had  plied  Stamps  with  whiskey  un- 
til his  tongue  began  to  thicken  ;  he  had 
told  his  best  stories  ;  sung,  laughed,  cried 
"  Merry  Christmas,"  "  as  they  do  it  in 
Texas,"  and  staked  his  silver  dollars  until 
the  eyes  of  his  fellows  were  fairly  dazzled. 

It  was  when  the  hands  of  the  little 
dusty  clock  on  a  shelf  over  the  door 
pointed  to  midnight,  that  he  chanced  to 
glance  towards  the  window,  against  which 


Cinch  5 i 

the  moonlight  fell  weirdly,  grotesquely 
bright.  The  next  moment  he  shuddered, 
and  started  up  with  an  oath. 

,He  had  seen  distinctly,  pressed  against 
the  murky,  dusty  pane,  a  gaunt,  gray  face, 
—  a  woman's  face.  Isabel  it  was,  but 
grown  old ;  how  old  and  haggard  and 
gray. 

"  What  ails  ye  ?  "  said  the  storekeeper. 
"  Somethin'  give  ye  a  start  ?  " 

"  I  seen  a  ghost ;  a  sure  enough  ghost, 
Mr.  Hartson.  Its  face  was  pressed  against 
that  window  yonder." 

"  You  seen  the  devil,"  laughed  Stamps. 
"  Mighty  quare,  a  feller  come  from  Texas 
not  ter  know  his  friends  when  he  meets 
'em." 

This  raised  a  laugh  in  which  Binder  did 
not  join.  At  that  moment  a  fleshless, 
ghoulish  hand  appeared,  and  tapped  against 
the  pane. 

"  There  !  there  it  is  again.  Look  for 
yourself.  See  its  hand,  like  a  yellow  bone, 
at  the  window." 


52  Cinch 

They  did  look,  every  one  of  them,  and 
they  saw  the  ghost's  face  return  ;  it  was 
close  against  the  pane. 

"  Jerry  !  Jerry  !  Jerry  !  "  a  quavering 
voice  called. 

He  half  rose,  with  an  oath.  "  What  the 
devil's  ter  pay  out  thar  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"Jerry,  I've  come  from  my  granddaugh- 
ter Is'bel.  Thar's  a  mighty  fine  boy 
down  to  you-uns'  place,  Jerry." 

The  ghost  vanished,  its  midnight  mis- 
sion accomplished.  The  men  laid  down 
their  cards  to  laugh,  —  all  but  Binder.  In 
an  instant  he  felt  his  plans  give  way ;  his 
unholy  hopes  perish  before  this  new- 
comer, this  baby  born  at  Christmas.  It 
had  come,  as  life  always  comes,  for  good  or 
ill,  for  better,  for  worse,  for  power  or  pain. 
Only  a  babe's  life ;  a  thread  that  a  breath 
might  snap  in  sunder.  A  tiny  thing ;  the 
babe's  head  had  not  learned  the  pressure 
of  the  mother's  breast,  nor  its  lips  the 
secret  of  milk  drawing.  Young  ;  one  of 
God's  little  ones.  The  Christmas  sun 


Cinch  53 

would  be  the  first  of  suns  to  give  the  little 
strangeling  welcome  into  the  world  it 
shone  upon,  and  in  which  he,  God  will- 
ing, would  have  the  right  to  shine  also. 
Through  every  chink  and  crevice  the 
golden  rays  would  come  rejoicing;  search- 
ing for  the  babe  born  in  the  cabin,  as  once 
in  old  Judea  the  startled  stars  stood  still 
before  the  babe  born  in  a  manger. 

The  tallow  candle  sputtered  and  flared, 
and  cast  the  shadows  of  the  gamblers  upon 
the  bare  brown  wall,  grotesquely.  But 
the  game  had  lost  its  flavour.  It  was  the 
babe's  doing. 

"  Well,"  said  Hartson,  "  I  reckon  it's 
about  time  ter  quit ;  Jerry'll  be  wantin' 
ter  git  off"  home  ter  see  his  heir." 

Clearly  Stamps  had  no  idea  of  allowing 
himself  to  be  teased  ;  he  tilted  his  chair, 
his  boot  heels  fastened  securely  upon  the 
lowest  rung,  and  with  his  largest  air  of 
bluff  said : 

"  Got  mighty  keerful  o'  Jerry  all't 
once.  When  I  git  so  blamed  anxious  ter 


54  Cinch 

go  home  as  not  ter  be  able  no  ways  ter 
stand  it,  I'll  notify  the  crowd.  Pass  that 
thar  jug  over  here,  Texas.  An'  deal  the 
cyards,  Jim." 

"  Naw,"  said  Hartson, "  naw,  he  won't. 
It's  time  ter  stop.  Ye  ought  ter  go  home 
ter  yo'  sick  wife.  If  me  an'  Jim  stop,  you- 
uns'll  be  bound  ter,  seein'  as  it  takes  four 
ter  play  this  here  cinch.  H it'll  soon  be 
Chris'mas  day  anyhow." 

"  Well,  what  if  it  air  ? "  demanded 
Stamps.  Hit'll  come  off  just  the  same,  I 
^pect,  whether  ye  play  cyards  or  not.  I 
ain't  goin'  home  till  I  git  ready.  I  ain't 
never  goin'  if  I  don't  feel  like  it." 

Binder's  dark  eyes  emitted  flashes ;  he 
was  thinking  of  the  woman  in  the  cabin, 
alone  in  her  hour  of  trial,  save  for  the  old 
grandmother,  whom  she  had  sent,  upon 
her  last  hope  of  enticing  the  ungracious 
father  to  his  home,  with  the  news  of  the 
baby's  coming. 

The  stragglers  got  up  and  went  out, 
followed  by  Hartson,  who  declared  he 


Cinch  55 

was  going  to  close  up.  Only  Jerry  and 
Binder  remained  in  the  back  room. 

"  Take  another  drink,  Jerry,"  said  he. 
"  One  more  for  lagniappe,  as  they  say  in 
Houston  ;  we  call  it f  luck  '  in  Tennessee." 

As  the  already  drunken  Stamps  lifted 
the  jug  to  his  lips,  Binder  added  :  "  That's 
what  a  man  gits  fur  bein'  married.  Now 
look  at  me  :  I  can  go  all  the  world  over 
if  I'm  so  minded.  Better  trade  'em  off, 
Jerry.  Say  the  word,  an'  I'll  trot  'em  off 
ter  Texas  ter-morrer  an*  give  you  your 
freedom.  Or,  better," —  he  leaned  forward 
and  half  whispered  in  Stamps's  ear, — "  I'll 
give  you-uns  the  money  ter  light  out,  an' 
I'll  stay  here  in  your  stead." 

Stamps  lifted  his  eyes  ;  in  a  twinkling 
Binder  had  lowered  his,  but  too  late. 
Quick  as  he  was,  Stamps  had  caught  the 
serpent  gleam  hiding  in  their  dark,  unholy 
depths.  In  that  one  swift,  devouring 
glance  all  the  unholy  passion,  the  sinister 
and  secret  meaning  of  his  every  action 
since  he  had  come  to  his  house  that  fair 


56  Cinch 

October  morning,  lay  revealed.  This  was 
why  he  had  lingered,  this  the  foundation 
of  all  his  fine  talk,  and  finer  professions  of 
friendship.  For  this  he  had  tossed  his 
money  constantly  before  the  bewildered 
eyes  of  the  victim  he  was  making  ready  to 
stab.  It  was  all  plain  reading  to  Stamps. 
He  lowered  his  right  hand,  and  lifted  it 
to  the  table  again ;  the  sickly  candle  rays 
reflected  the  glitter  of  steel  where  the 
muzzle  of  his  pistol  shone  beneath  his 
broad,  brown  hand. 

"  You  damned  son  of  Satan,"  he  hissed. 
"  So  that  air  yer  game,  air  it  ?  Be  still 
thar;  move  a  finger,  an'  I'll  blow  yer 
blasted  brains  out  fur  ye.  Cinch  !  ye  think 
ye've  got  a  cinch  on  a  feller's  soul,  I 
reckin.  Damn  ye  !  Ye  Texas  gintleman 
ye,  —  ye're  a  damned  Tennessee  sneak- 
thief,  that's  what  ye  be,  gol-darn  yer  black 
heart,  ye." 

Binder  had  half  risen,  his  hand  upon 
his  hip.  The  two  men  who  had  made 
partners  for  the  others  came  rushing  back 


Cinch  57 

to  separate  the  angry  cousins.  They  even 
got  Binder's  pistol  from  him,  leaving  him 
helpless,  at  the  mercy  of  the  man  he  had 
wronged. 

It  was  scarcely  a  glance  that  Stamps 
cast  upward,  into  the  dingy  rafters,  fes- 
tooned with  the  web  of  the  spider,  and  or- 
namented with  the  nests  of  wasp  and  dirt 
dauber.  But  in  that  glance  he  saw,  be- 
yond, behind  the  gray,  gauzy  spiders'  web, 
the  dust  and  soot,  a  woman's  face,  pictured 
against  the  smoke-discoloured  boards ;  a 
face  full  of  unspoken  reproach  ;  eyes  in 
which  hope's  hard  death  was  reflected 
plaintively.  It  was  the  face  of  the  woman 
for  the  possession  of  whom  a  professional 
gambler  had  offered  him  money. 

"  God ! " 

The  quick,  stifled  exclamation  burst 
from  his  lips  in  spite  of  his  effort  to  re- 
strain it.  It  came  to  him  like  a  knife 
thrust,  this  cruel,  barbarously  inhuman 
thing  that  he  was  doing  ;  leaving  his  wife, 
— his  wife  who  had  lain  upon  his  heart,  and 


58  Cinch 

had  once  believed  him  tender,  —  leaving 
her  to  the  pity,  the  confidence,  the  insulting 
affection  of  a  man  whose  extremest  sense 
of  honour  boasted  no  loftier  height  than  the 
gambler's  table.  What  a  travesty  was  he 
upon  the  sacred  name  of  husband,  and  of 
father,  —  for  he  was  a  father.  He  had  not 
thought  of  that  before,  and  as  his  heart 
whispered  the  blessed  word,  he  felt  the 
warm  thrill  of  conscious  fatherhood  creep 
through  him,  —  something  new,  and 
strange,  and  indescribably  sweet. 

Slowly  he  rose,  his  hand  still  grasping 
the  glittering  weapon,  his  keen  eyes  never 
for  an  instant  turned  from  the  startled 
man  who  had  too  rashly  risked  his  last 
throw  of  the  die  upon  which  his  fate 
swung  dependent.  Amid  breathless  silence 
he  lifted,  poised  the  weapon :  "  I  give  you," 
he  said,  in  low,  even  tones,  "jest  three 
minutes  ter  quit  this  country.  Open  that 
door  thar,  Hartson.  Git  up ;  take  that 
path  up  the  mount'n,  an'  the  fewer  stops 
ye  make  this  side  o'  Texas  the  better  it'll 


Cinch  59 

be  fur  yer  health,  ye  cussed  runaway 
ye." 

A  moment,  and  the  tall,  skulking  fig- 
ure disappeared  like  a  black  shadow  in 
the  white  moonlight  that  lay  upon  the 
mountain. 

In  the  chill  gray  of  the  Christmas  dawn 
Stamps  lifted  with  trembling  fingers  the 
latchstring  of  his  own  little  cabin.  As  he 
did  so  there  came  to  him  the  faint  cry  of  a 
little  child,  a  baby.  Again  that  delicious 
sense  of  fatherhood  swept  his  being ;  again 
he  remembered  that  other  Christmas  babe 
in  far-away  Judea.  With  noiseless  step  he 
entered  ;  a  slow  fire  burned  in  the  deep 
old  fireplace.  An  iron  lamp  swung  by  a 
rod  from  the  sooted  jamb,  a  tiny  blue 
blaze  sputtering  a  protest  against  the  liquid 
grease  that  threatened  its  extinguishment. 
The  old  grandmother,  who  had  tramped 
up  the  mountain  with  news  of  the  babe's 
birth,  nodded  in  the  corner,  her  fireless 
pipe  held  fast  between  her  toothless 
gums. 


60  Cinch 

Jerry  seized  the  lamp,  and  carried  it  to 
the  bedside.  Isabel's  bright  head  lay  like 
a  heap  of  spun  gold  upon  the  pillow  ;  the 
lamplight  brought  out  all  the  hidden,  bur- 
nished beauty  of  the  soft,  girlish  tresses. 
The  blue  reflection  of  the  blaze  fell  upon 
her  face,  tingeing  it  with  daintiest  sapphire ; 
it  bathed  her  bosom,  bare  and  white,  show- 
ing him  the  tiny  head  pillowed  against  the 
exquisite  fairness,  in  dreamless,  infant 
slumber ;  it  stole  beneath  the  mother's 
eyelids  and  they  opened. 

She  smiled  and  put  out  her  hand,  to  lay 
it  on  his  bosom  :  "  Hush,"  she  whispered, 
"  else  you'll  wake  our  baby." 

O«r,  not  mine ;  the  simple  words 
touched  him  as  no  sermon  could  have 
done. 

"  God ! " 

It  was  not  spoken  as  he  had  been  wont 
to  speak  the  name  of  God ;  it  was  more  a 
breath  of  reverence  that  had  come  with 
the  babe  at  Christmas  time.  He  drew 
nearer,  almost  afraid  of  the  little  bundle 


Cinch  6 i 

of  humanity  that  had  come  to  claim  his 
sonship. 

Isabel's  glad  eyes  waited  his  approval  ; 
he  read  the  motherhood  beaming  in  their 
honest  depths,  and  knew  the  man  he  had 
sent  stumbling  out  across  the  mountain 
would  not  be  missed  in  the  heart  the  babe 
had  come  to  fill.  The  neglected  wife  might 
fall  a  victim  to  the  tempter,  but  never  the 
worshipping  mother. 

Many  thoughts  awoke  in  his  heart,  hold- 
ing him  silent.  To  Isabel  his  silence  held 
a  different  meaning ;  she  withdrew  her 
hand,  turning  her  face  from  him,  and 
speaking  for  the  baby  at  her  breast : 

"  If  yer  ain't  got  a  word  o'  welcome  fur 
us,  Jerry  Stamps,  I  reckin  we'll  have  ter 
do  without  it,"  she  said,  sharply. 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  head,  strok- 
ing it  gently  ;  it  was  the  first  time  she  had 
ever  seen  him  embarrassed. 

"  I  can't  think  of  a  blessed  thing  ter 
say,  honey,  exceptin'  of  jest  (  Christmas 
gift.'  " 


62  Cinch 

She  laughed  softly,  like  a  happy  child, 
and  lifting  her  arm,  placed  it  about  his 
neck,  drawing  his  rough,  red  face  down  to 
her  own  soft  cheek. 

"  We're  goin'  ter  be  mighty  happy  now, 
I  reckin,"  she  whispered.  "  An'  I'm 
mighty  glad  he  come  at  Chris'mus  ;  'pears 
like  he's  almost  of  some  kin  ter  Christ." 

And  who  shall  doubt  the  mission  of  the 
two,  at  all  events,  was  one,  —  a  mission 
of  love,  humanity  ;  a  message  of  "  good 
tidings  of  great  joy,"  of  peace  to  all  and 
good  will  ? 


The 
Leper  of  the   Cumberlands 


FAR  above  the  valley,  in  solitary  gran- 
deur, rises  the  weird  old  summit  of 
the  Milksick  Mountain.1  Too  distant  to 
claim  kinship  with  the  Cumberlands,  too 
remote  to  be  named  among  the  brother- 
hood of  the  Great  Smokies,  it  stands 
alone,  —  a  monarch  without  subjects,  a 
banished  king  of  a  proud  old  range, 
trending  off  to  the  eastward,  ever  away 
from  its  accursed  companionship.  It 
presents  an  awesome  front,  even  in  its 

1  This  mountain,  as  described,  may  be  found  in  White 
County,  Tenn.  The  secret  of  the  Milksick  poison  has 
never  been  discovered,  though  scientists  are  constantly 
at  work  seeking  to  unravel  Nature's  great  mystery.  — 
W.  A.  D. 

63 


64    The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands 

affliction,  refusing  baser  fellowship  than 
the  clouds  which  sometimes  drop  a  kindly 
veil  across  its  rugged  brow.  The  very 
fence  surrounding  it  has  a  pitiful  signifi- 
cance, as  though  it  said,  "  Set  Apart !  " 
"  Stricken ! " 

The  verdure,  true,  is  always  green  there, 
summer  or  winter,  making  a  tantalis- 
ing temptation  for  the  cattle  constantly 
grouped  without  the  bars,  watching  with 
longing  eyes  the  hardy  luxuriance  which 
crowns  the  Milksick  Mountain.  But  woe 
to  the  cattle  venturing  beyond  the  prohibi- 
tory bars  !  Woe  to  the  cattle,  and  woe  to 
the  lips  that  drink  of  their  milk ! 

It  had  brought  woe  enough,  indeed,  to 
the  humble  dwellers  of  the  valley  around 
about,  had  this  "  mountain  of  poison,"  as 
they  called  it;  and  one  by  one,  as  the 
deadly  Milksick  had  left  its  mark  upon 
them,  the  afflicted  families  had  moved 
farther  on,  and  away  from  the  dangerous 
locality,  until  only  grandad  Corbin's 
little  cabin  remained  in  the  shadow  of 


The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands    65 

the  "  Stricken  Monarch."  This  is  the 
name  scientists  have  given  it ;  for  the 
Milksick  Mountain  has  baffled  science, 
lo,  these  years. 

To  the  people  in  Bear  Cove  it  is 
known  as  the  "  Leper  of  the  Cumber- 
lands  ; "  and  what  to  do  with  it,  how  to 
protect  themselves  from  its  uncompre- 
hended  curse,  was  a  question  finally  set- 
tled by  the  erection  of  a  great  fence  entirely 
surrounding  it,  and  made  doubly  secure 
by  placing  a  fine  of  one  hundred  dollars 
upon  the  hand  lifted  to  lower  the  bars, 
for  any  cause  whatsoever. 

The  fence  might  be  scaled  at  will,  but 
the  bars  were  not  to  be  removed,  lest  by 
a  slip  of  man's  memory  the  cattle  should 
find  an  opening  into  the  deadly  pasture. 
True,  the  bars  might  have  been  dispensed 
with  altogether,  only  that  the  mountaineer 
never  dispenses  with  them  ;  and  the  fine 
was  found  to  be  an  ample  protection. 

Secure  in  this  safeguard,  grandad  Cor- 
bin  and  his  wife,  granny,  had  dwelt  for 


66    The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands 

more  than  fifty  years  under  the  shadow 
of  the  mountain  guarding  the  eastern  pass 
to  Hickory  Valley. 

Poor  grandad  spent  much  wonder  upon 
the  nature  of  the  poison  which  affected 
the  bright,  tender  growth ;  but  to  granny  it 
was  neither  a  matter  of  worry  nor  conjecture. 

"  I  air  not  questionin'  o'  the  Lord's 
doin's,"  she  would  declare.  "He  made 
the  Milksick  ez  it  air,  so  I  reckin  it  air  all 
right,  bein'  ez  I  ain't  never  heeard  ez  he 
ware  give  ter  makin*  mistakes.  I  reckin 
it  air  all  right." 

All  right !  That  is  just  what  the  peo- 
ple of  Hickory  Valley,  and  more  espe- 
cially that  part  of  it  belonging  to  Bear 
Cove,  would  have  expected  granny  Cor- 
bin  to  say. 

Indeed,  Ben  Sykes,  surly  Ben  Sykes, 
declared  :  "  Granny  air  mightily  noted  for 
that  word.  Everything  air  ( all  right '  ter 
her.  That  air  the  chorus  ter  her  song, 
an'  she  air  tolerble  steddy  ter  sing  it. 
'  All  right ; '  it  air  allers  '  all  right.'  All 


The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands    67 

troubles  an'  ailments  that  comes  ter  folks 
air  f  all  right,'  an'  just  what  it  ought  ter 
be,  ef  a  body  listens  ter  granny  Corbin. 
But  I'm  a-waitin'  ter  see  ef  things'll 
be  so  mighty  *  right '  when  the  trouble 
lays  at  her  own  door.  Granny's  had  a 
precious  little  ter  fret  over,  an'  it's  mighty 
easy  ter  say  trouble  an'  afflictions  air  c  all 
right '  when  they  air  sent  ter  other  folks. 
Granny's  got  her  name  up  fur  that.  I'm 
a-waitin'  ter  see  how  she  bears  her  own 
troubles." 

So  she  had,  as  Ben  said,  "  got  her  name 
up "  as  a  comforter  among  her  humble 
neighbours.  Where  trouble  went  they 
had  learned  to  look  for  granny  Corbin, 
and  it  was  seldom,  indeed,  that  they 
looked  in  vain. 

She  had  such  a  gentle  way  of  carrying 
hope  to  afflicted  hearts,  such  a  natural 
way  of  making  trouble  seem  less  hard 
than  it  was,  she  was  a  very  welcome  visi- 
tor among  the  suffering,  was  dear  old 
granny  Corbin. 


68    The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands 

None  knew  this  better  than  Ben  Sykes; 
for,  despite  his  braggadocio  and  scepticism, 
Ben  had  very  sad  and  tender  recollections 
of  the  day  his  only  girl  died,  and  all  sun- 
light and  warmth  seemed  to  have  left  the 
world  together  with  the  little  form  they 
were  laying  away  under  the  dogwood-trees 
on  the  side  of  the  mountain  beyond  Lost 
Creek ;  and  when  they  had  left  her  there 
alone,  under  the  blooming  dogwood,  he 
had  crept  back  when  the  rest  were  gone, 
to  weep  by  the  little  grave  that  held  his 
heart.  For  Ben's  life  at  home  was  not  a 
sunny  one  ;  his  wife  was  quarrelsome,  and 
hard  to  please  ;  and  now  that  the  child 
was  gone,  he  dreaded  what  it  might  be  — 
the  place  he  called  home  —  for  himself 
and  his  son  Ruben.  Ruben,  he  knew, 
would  not  stand  it  very  long ;  for  he  was 
full  grown  at  eighteen,  and  only  the  week 
before  had  threatened  to  leave  "  if  the 
etarnal  fuss  went  on." 

It  was  the  child  had  held  the  divided 
house  together,  —  the  little  girl  sleeping 


The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands    69 

under  the  dogwood-trees.  The  little  heart 
would  grieve  no  more  for  the  harsh  words 
spoken ;  the  little  lips  would  no  more 
kiss  away  the  furrows  of  care  and  frowns 
of  impatience.  Ben  sighed  for  his  future 
peace  as  he  crept  back  for  a  last  moment 
on  the  little  red  mound  that  covered 
his  baby  girl.  It  had  seemed  so  bare 
and  desolate,  just  as  her  little  life  had 
been.  If  the  grass  would  only  hurry 
and  cover  it,  he  thought  it  would  not  be 
so  hard  to  leave  her  there.  He  longed 
for,  and  yet  dreaded  to  see  it, — the  little 
barren  mound.  But  when  he  saw  it,  his 
heart  gave  a  great  bound,  and  the  tears 
started  to  his  eyes,  and  ran  down  his 
rough  cheeks. 

"  Granny  Corbin,"  he  said,  "  it  ware 
certainly  granny  ez  done  it." 

The  little  grave  was  literally  covered 
with  the  delicate  dogwood  blossoms. 
First  the  petals,  creamy  and  pink  and 
pure  white,  telling  how  the  trees  had 
been  violently  shaken,  until  the  grave 


yo    The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands 

beneath  them  was  well-nigh  covered. 
Then  there  were  sprigs  of  the  pretty 
blossoms,  armfuls,  grouped  about  the 
little  mound  until  it  was,  seemingly,  only 
a  mound  of  bright  blossoms. 

It  was  a  very  simple  thing  to  do,  a  very 
little  thing,  maybe,  but  it  helped  him  in 
his  sorrow.  He  never  thought  of  his 
child  again  as  lying  alone  in  the  damp, 
dark  earth.  She  was  asleep  in  a  bed  of 
flowers.  It  was  a  very  sweet  and  com- 
forting thought,  and  in  his  heart  he 
blessed  the  hand  that  had  decked  the 
resting-place  of  his  darling. 

The  next  week  she  had  come  to  him 
again,  —  dear  old  granny  Corbin,  —  come 
to  him,  as  she  always  came,  on  the  heels 
of  sorrow.  Ruben  had  left,  —  run  away  ; 
"  gone  for  ever,"  he  declare^.  And  granny 
had  come  over  to  tell  him  it  was  "  all 
right "  that  his  son  should  desert  him,  and 
his  child  should  die,  and  his  house  "  be 
give  over  ter  torment."  He  was  very 
angry,  and  he  told  granny  to  "  cl'ar  out," 


The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands    71 

and  go  home  and  learn  what  trouble 
meant  before  she  went  out  as  com- 
forter. 

"  It's  mighty  easy  ter  tell  folks  trouble 
air  f  all  right '  so  long  ez  it  air  not  your 
own,"  he  declared.  "  But  wait  tell  it 
stops  ter  yer  own  door,  an'  see  ef  it's 
all  so  right.  Wait  tell  it  stops,  I  say,  an' 
then  come  a-sayin'  ez  it  air  all  right, 
an'  maybe  I'll  b'lieve  ye." 

Ben  was  not  the  only  one  who  scoffed, 
however,  and  wondered  if  affliction  would 
not  weaken  the  woman's  faith,  but  at  the 
same  time  was  comforted  and  helped  by 
her. 

There  was  the  widow  Larkins,  whose 
son  Jeff  was  brought  home  one  day  with 
a  bullet  in  his  breast,  and  the  scent  of 
whiskey  still  upon  him.  Granny  had 
slipped  in  behind  the  men  bringing  the 
dead  boy  home ;  and  when  his  old 
mother,  blind  with  grief,  had  reached 
her  hands  across  the  bed  in  a  helpless, 
stricken  way,  they  had  met  granny  Cor- 


72    The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands 

bin's  warm,  friendly  clasp  come  to  meet 
her  from  the  other  side. 

Sympathy  was  not  abundant  in  the  Lar- 
kins's  neighbourhood,  for  many  had  felt 
the  effects  of  JefFs  drunken  recklessness. 
But  granny  did  not  stop  to  consider  that. 
Death  is  death  in  the  household,  whether 
it  takes  the  pet  lamb  or  the  black  sheep. 
So  she  helped  to  wipe  away  the  blood, 
and  smoothed  the  tangled  hair  upon  the 
white  temples,  and  folded  his  hands  gently 
upon  his  breast,  and  laid  a  sprig  of  sweet 
azalea  blossoms  upon  his  bosom,  and 
another  against  his  cheek  ;  and  then  car- 
ried his  mother  to  look  at  her  boy,  lying 
so  still  and  pale  and  gentle  among  the 
white  sheets  and  the  sweet  azalea  blos- 
soms. 

He  had  never  seemed  so  clean,  so  pure 
and  childlike,  since  the  days  when  he  slept 
upon  her  bosom,  —  the  far-away  days  of 
babyhood.  Into  the  mother's  heart  there 
crept  a  hope,  a  faith,  that  was  to  cheer  her 
always,  that  he  might  perhaps  "  be  fit  to 


The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands    73 

die  after  all."  It  was  her  boy,  her  babe, 
come  back  again,  clean  and  white,  in  the 
arms  of  death. 

"  It's  mighty  easy,"  Ben  Sykes  said, 
when  he  heard  of  it,  "  it's  mighty  easy  ter 
comfort  when  ye  don't  know  what  trouble 
air.  Jest  wait,  I  tell  ye,  tell  it  stops  ter 
her  door ;  then  ye'll  see  ef  it  air  { all 
right,'  though  it  air  '  sent  of  the  Lord.' ' 
So  Ben  said,  and  said  it  until  others 
began  to  say  it,  and  began  to  wait,  with- 
out really  knowing  it,  for  the  trouble 
that  was  to  unsettle  granny  Corbin's 
faith. 

And  granny  lived  on  in  the  cabin  under 
the  shadow  of  the  Milksick  Mountain, 
"  blessed  of  the  Lord,"  she  declared,  for 
her  son  Ab  and  his  wife  and  their  five 
little  ones  shared  the  chimney  corner 
with  her  and  grandad. 

"  Not  a  chick  nor  a  child  missin',"  Ben 
declared ;  "  how  can  she  know  the  sorrer 
of  death  an'  of  deserlation  ?  " 


74    The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands 

True,  they  were  poor,  as  the  world 
went,  but  wealth  was  a  stranger  among 
the  Bear  Cove  people,  and  granny  was  as 
well  off  as  the  rest  of  them.  She  had  the 
cabin  and  the  patch  of  ground  surround- 
ing it,  and  "  old  Star,"  the  cow  that  had 
"  literally  raised  the  two  last  chillen,  ez  her 
mammy  had  the  oldest  ones  afore  her." 
The  land,  true,  was  a  trifle  too  near 
the  Milksick  to  be  of  any  great  value ; 
for  the  unknown  poison  was  liable  to 
spread,  and  had  a  way,  the  neighbours 
said,  "  of  travellin'  'round  ekel  ter  the 
mumps  an'  the  'hoopin'  cough."  But 
granny  troubled  herself  very  little  about 
the  mountain.  Grandad  worried  some, 
to  be  sure,  but  after  all  it  was  more 
wonder  than  worry  that  made  him  sit  for 
hours  under  the  low  eaves  of  the  cabin, 
with  his  faded  eyes  fixed  upon  the  awe- 
some old  summit. 

"  I  allers  wondered  what  ailed  it,"  he 
said,  one  day,  as  he  watched  the  shadow 
clouds  drifting  above  the  stricken  height. 


The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands    75 

"  I  allers  wondered  what  ailed  the  Milk- 
sick,  anyhow." 

Granny  looked  up  from  the  heel  she 
was  turning  upon  her  knitting-needles. 
"  I  air  not  questionin'  the  doin's  of  the 
Almighty,"  she  declared.  "He  made  the 
Milksick  ez  it  air,  so  it  air  bound  ter  be 
all  right,  since  he  done  it." 

But  grandad  could  not  accept  the  riddle 
so  quietly.  For  half  a  century  he  had 
lived  under  its  shadow,  to  wonder  at  the 
curse. 

"Waall,"  he  insisted,  "I'd  jest  like 
ter  know,  afore  I  die,  what  it  be  ez  hev 
pizened  the  Milksick  Mountain." 

"Ye  can't  Tarn  it,  Obadiah,"  said 
granny.  "  Smarter  folks  nor  we-uns  hev 
been  a-doctorin'  of  it,  an'  a-wonderin',  an' 
at  the  last  they-uns  hain't  no  wiser  nor 
we-uns." 

"  Parson  Orman,  he  'lowed,"  said  gran- 
dad, "  ez  it  air  a  leper,  an'  hed  ter  be  sot 
aside,  'count  o'  its  bein'  onclean.  It  ware 
a  likely  sayin'  o'  Parson  Orman's  ;  fur 


76    The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands 

whenever  I  look  at  the  Milksick,  fenced 
off  ther'  ter  itse'f,  it  seems  ter  be  a-sayin', 
e  Onclean  !  onclean  ! '  ever'  time  I  look." 

"  Yes,"  assented  granny,  "  it  do  seem 
ez  ef  the  hand  o'  the  Lord  ware  upon  it. 
Yit,  I'm  thinkin'  it  air  all  right,  spite  o' 
its  ailmints." 

"  I  ud  like  ter  go  over  thar,"  said 
grandad,  "  an'  look  about  a  spell,  an'  try 
ef  I  couldn't  make  out  what  ails  it.  Some 
o'  the  scienters  'lowed  it  ware  the  dew  on 
the  yarbs,  an'  ez  it  ware  all  right  after  the 
dew  dried  up.  But  the  cattle  ez  went  in 
in  dew  time  died  jest  like  them  ez  got  in 
when  the  dew  ware  gone.  All  of  'em  went 
a-flyin'  down  ter  the  creek,  ravin'  mad,  ter 
drink  theirse'ves  ter  death.  An'  some 
'lowed  t'ware  min'ral  in  the  groun'  ez  pi- 
zened  the  yarbs  above  the  groun'.  But 
they  digged,  an'  digged,  an'  thar  never 
ware  no  min'ral  foun',  not  ter  this  good 
day.  So  they  jest  h'isted  the  fence,  and 
furbid  folks  a-projeckin'  with  the  Milksick 
Mount'n  any  more.  But  I  ud  like  ter  try 


The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands    77 

ter  find  it ;  'twould  be  wuth  consider'ble 
ter  find  out  what  air  hid  over  thar  in  the 
Milksick  pen." 

"  Obadiah  !  "  Granny's  voice  was  sharp 
in  remonstrance.  "  Ye  hev  got  no  bus'ness 
ter  be  talkin'  sech  afore  the  chillen.  Nex' 
thing  we-uns  know  Burke  an'  David'll  be 
lett'n'  down  them  bars ;  an'  who's  ter  pay 
the  hundred-dollar  fine  fur  the  life  of  me 
I  can't  see." 

Grandad  said  no  more ;  but  he  thought 
about  it  a  good  deal.  He  had  always  won- 
dered at  the  old  Milksick  curse.  But  pub- 
lic feeling  was  against  any  tampering  with 
the  poisonous  growth.  The  folks  had 
suffered  too  much  from  broken  rails,  and 
bars  left  down,  and  poisoned  cattle,  and 
deadly  milk.  Their  feelings  were  very 
emphatic  on  the  subject.  Grandad  knew  it. 

"  Ef  a  cow  ware  ter  git  in  fifty  years 
from  now,  they'd  say  I  done  it,  ef  they 
once  knowed  I  hed  been  in  thar,"  he  said. 
So  he  never  ventured  beyond  the  bars  ; 
discretion  was  the  better  part  of  curiosity. 


7  8    The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands 

But  unfortunately  grandad's  caution  did 
not  descend  to  his  grandsons,  Burke  and 
David,  or  else  they  were  too  young  for  its 
development.  Long  after  the  old  man 
was  asleep  that  night,  the  boys  lay  awake 
in  the  trundle-bed,  whispering  in  each  other 
of  the  wonderful  something  which  grandad 
had  said  was  hidden  in  the  Milksick  pen, 
and  which  must  be  worth  so  much  to  the 
finder. 

The  moon  was  flooding  the  poisonous 
pasture  with  her  full,  soft  light  when  two 
figures  slipped  noiselessly  through  the 
cabin  door,  and  sped  away  towards  the 
grim  old  mountain  rising  to  the  left  of 
the  garden  patch. 

Click !  clack  !  the  bars  were  dropped 
from  nervous  little  hands,  —  carefully 
dropped.  But  when  a  low  "  moo " 
sounded  among  the  azalea  bushes  across 
the  road,  both  boys  started  with  guilty 
fear,  and  the  half  lifted  rail  fell  with  a 
crash  that  seemed  to  awake  the  very  hills. 

Both  took  to  their  heels,  but  stopped, 


The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands    79 

breathless  and  panting,  when  they  heard 
old  Star's  bell  tinkling  among  the  azalea 
bushes.  It  was  only  the  cow  that  had 
frightened  them,  but  guilty  consciences 
refused  to  face  their  fears  a  second  time. 
They  crept  back  to  the  trundle-bed  where 
the  little  sisters  were  quietly  sleeping.  It 
was  not  long  until  they,  too,  were  asleep. 
And  while  they  slept,  old  Star  was  con- 
tentedly grazing  within  the  poisonous 
limits  of  the  Milksick  pen. 

It  was  "  sun-up  "  when  Ben  Sykes  and 
Abner  Corbin,  returning  from  an  all-night 
fox  hunt,  stopped  at  the  gate  of  the  Cor- 
bin place.  Early  as  it  was,  Ab's  wife  had 
breakfast  ready.  The  odour  of  broiling  ba- 
con came,  deliciously  appetising,  through 
the  cabin  door  when  Ab's  wife  opened  it 
a  moment  to  bid  Ben  "  come  in  an'  have 
a  bite  of  warm  vittels  along  of  Ab." 

But  Ben  declared  he  must  go  on,  and 
was  about  to  do  so,  when  the  sound  of 
childish  laughter  made  both  men  turn  and 


8o    The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands 

look  where  the  boys,  Burke  and  David, 
were  coming  down  the  road,  holding  to 
old  Star's  tail,  and  shouting  as  they  came. 

In  response  to  their  shouts  the  cabin 
door  opened  again,  and  two  tangled  tow 
heads  appeared  in  the  light  of  the  misty 
morning.  Polly  and  Docie,  their  frocks 
unbuttoned,  and  their  faces  unwashed,  but 
with  their  tiny  tin  cups  bright  and  clean, 
came  bounding  out  at  the  first  sound  of 
the  cow's  coming. 

Within  the  cabin  another  ear  had  caught 
the  familiar  tinkle  of  the  cow-bell,  and  baby 
Bess  turned  in  her  trundle-bed. 

Another  turn,  and  the  bare  feet  touched 
the  puncheon  floor  ;  then  came  a  kind  of 
swift,  right-about  movement,  a  half  pull, 
half  crawl,  that  brought  her  to  the  cabin 
door,  where  she  sat  waving  her  hands  and 
calling  "  Too  Tow  "  as  lustily  as  the  rest. 

Ben  watched  the  little  ones  gathered 
about  the  docile  animal.  Burke  was  the 
real  milker,  and  he  sat  with  the  piggin 
between  his  knees,  guiding  the  streams  of 


The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands    81 

creamy  milk  safely  through  the  tiny  cups 
that  were  thrust  now  and  then  between 
his  hand  and  the  piggin,  when  the  younger 
milkers  found  their  own  efforts  a  trifle 
slow.  Close  to  Burke's  side  sat  David, 
ostensibly  "  keeping  off  the  calf,"  —  in 
reality  waiting  his  turn  on  the  milking- 
stool.  Polly  and  Docie  crouched  close  to 
old  Star  upon  the  other  side;  so  close, 
indeed,  that  more  than  once  Burke  called 
out : 

"Git  back  thar,  Polly,  else  ye'll  be 
tromped  ter  death  !  "  Or  else,  "  Move 
back,  Docie,  afore  ye  upset  the  piggin  !  " 

The  two  men  at  the  gate  watched  until 
one  tiny  cup  was  full,  and  Polly  ran  to 
fetch  it  to  the  baby,  crowing  delightedly 
in  the  cabin  door. 

"  I  declar',"  said  Ben,  "  them  babies  of 
yours  air  a  plumb  pretty  sight ;  an'  ole 
Star  air  a  wonder  fur  gentleness." 

"  Yes,"  said  Ab,  "  them  youngsters 
would  find  it  mighty  dry  livin'  without 
the  cow."  And  then  Ben  said  "good 


82    The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands 

day,"  and  Abner  Corbin  went  in  to  his 
breakfast,  and  his  family  grouped  about 
the  modest  table. 

A  frown  darkened  Ben's  brow  as  he 
trudged  homeward.  No  cheery  welcome 
and  happy  children  awaited  him  at  the 
cabin  in  Bear  Cove.  A  bit  of  broiled 
bacon  and  corn  bread,  seasoned  with  his 
wife's  ill  temper,  was  the  best  be  could 
hope  for. 

"  No  wonder  they-uns  kin  talk  so 
cheerful,"  he  muttered.  "  Not  a  chick 
nor  a  chil'  missin'.  No  wonder  granny 
finds  things  f  all  right '  allers.  Wait  till 
trouble  comes  ter  they-uns,  /  say ;  jest 
wait  till  it  comes." 

It  came,  —  swift  and  sharp  and  ter- 
rible. One  of  those  blows  before  which 
reason  itself  falls  in  the  grasp  of  despair. 

Ben  himself  grew  sick  with  horror 
when  a  messenger  went  through  the  cove 
at  sunset,  telling  the  awful  story  of  the 
Milksick  poison  that  had  appeared,  with 
terrible  fatality,  in  granny  Corbin's  cabin. 


The  Leper  of  the  Cumber-lands    83 

It  was  noon  of  the  next  day  when  he 
visited  the  stricken  house.  He  could  not 
bring  himself  to  go  sooner ;  he  felt  some- 
how as  though  he  had  expected  calamity 
until  expectation  had  become  a  wish  for 
it.  "  But  not  this,"  he  told  himself,  "  oh, 
my  God,  not  all  this  ! " 

He  had  not  looked  for  patience  and 
forbearance  in  the  face  of  this  terrible 
trial ;  it  was  too  much  to  ask  of  the 
human  heart  amid  such  dire  misfortune. 

The  neighbours  had  shrouded  the  dead 
when  Ben  arrived,  and  made  them  ready 
for  their  humble  burial.  David,  Polly, 
and  Docie  lay  on  the  little  trundle-bed, 
fast-locked,  pretty,  sinless  lambs,  not  in 
the  sweet  dream  of  restless  childhood,  but 
in  the  old,  old  sleep  of  death,  —  that 
sleep  which  locks  alike  the  lips  of  child- 
hood and  of  age,  and  seals  alike  the  laugh 
or  sigh  upon  the  lips  of  grave  or  gay,  — 
that  old,  old  sleep  of  death. 

Under  the  white  sheet  on  another  bed, 
Bess,  the  baby  that  had  crowed  in  the 


84    The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands 

sunshine  on  the  cabin  doorstep,  lay  —  a 
little  frozen  mountain  flower,  poor  little 
dead  babe  —  by  the  side  of  grandad. 

As  for  him,  the  old  man  upon  whose 
silver-crowned  temples  death  had  laid  a 
gentle  hand,  the  smile  upon  his  face 
might  have  been  the  smile  of  childhood 
come  again,  or,  perchance,  the  smile  of 
knowledge  gratified,  when  death  made 
clear  the  mystery  that  had  baffled  science, 
and  led  the  old  man  to  the  light  through 
that  self-made  riddle,  the  Milksick 
poison. 

Burke  crouched  in  a  corner,  sobbing 
beside  the  bed  where  Abner  watched  the 
course  of  the  poison  throbbing  in  his 
wife's  veins. 

Granny  moved  from  bed  to  bed,  where 
lay  the  living  and  the  dead,  ministering 
to  one,  tenderly  stroking  the  marble 
brows  of  the  other.  The  blow  had  fallen 
heavily,  mercilessly.  More  than  once  the 
assembled  neighbours  sought  to  speak 
their  sympathy,  but  words  were  choked 


The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands    85 

by  sobs.  She,  indeed,  the  stricken  and 
afflicted,  was  the  calmest  of  them  all. 
It  seemed  as  though  she  needed  sym- 
pathy of  none,  nor  asked  for  it.  But 
they  understood,  those  simple  folk,  she 
leaned  upon  a  stronger  arm  than  theirs. 

Once  she  stopped  beside  the  bed  where 
grandad  lay,  and  lifted  up  the  sheet,  and 
looked  down  at  the  calm,  dead  face  of  him 
who  had  travelled  at  her  side  for  half  a 
century. 

While  she  stood  thus,  tearless  and 
heart-broken,  a  shadow  fell  upon  the 
doorstep.  It  was  Ben,  the  scoffer,  but 
silent  now,  and  full  of  shame. 

Granny  turned  to  him,  and  lifted  up 
her  face,  pale  with  grief,  and  scarred  with 
age.  The  memory  of  his  words  awoke 
in  the  poor  brain, —  words  spoken  when 
his  own  heart  lay  crushed  and  bleeding : 

"  Wait  tell  trouble  stops  at  yer  own 
door,  then  say  ez  it's  'all  right,'  an'  I'll 
believe  ye." 

The  words    came    back  with    startling 


86    The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands 

meaning ;  her  faith  was  in  the  balance. 
She  who  had  preached  confidence  must 
now  prove  her  own,  and  that,  too,  to  this 
man  whose  future  might  depend  upon  her 
own  strength,  sorely  tried.  She  glanced 
at  Ben,  standing  in  the  sun-lighted  door- 
way, then  at  her  dead,  stretched  in  solemn 
stillness  under  the  white  sheets. 

The  poor  lips  opened  to  speak.  "  It 
hev  come,  neighbour,"  she  said, "  the  hand 
of  the  Lord  air  upon  me,"  —  she  hesitated 
for  a  single  instant,  and  the  silence  grew 
intense.  But  if  they  expected  any  falter- 
ing, any  swerving  of  the  faithful  old  heart, 
they  were  mistaken.  One  faded  hand  was 
laid  on  grandad's  marble  brow ;  the  other 
pointed  to  the  trundle-bed,  where  the 
dear  dead  babies  lay: 

"It  air  all  right,  else  it  had  not  V 
been." 

There  was  a  hush,  and  not  devoid  of 
reverence,  as  many  a  doubting  heart  took 
hold  again  on  hope.  To  Ben  the  troubles 
that  had  well-nigh  crushed  him  down 


The  Leper  of  the  Cumberlands    87 

seemed  puny  things,  before  that  majesty 
of  faith  which,  wrapped  in  the  fires  of 
pain,  could  rise  triumphant  from  the 
ashes  of  despair  to  say  "  It's  well." 


Old   Hickory's   Ball 


IT  was  in  the  good  year  of  our  Lord 
1 806  ;  the  season,  September ;  in  the 
State  of  Tennessee,  and  the  tenth  year  of 
its  age  as  a  State. 

The  summer  was  over,  the  harvests 
ripe,  the  year  growing  ruddy.  Down  in 
the  cotton  fields  the  bolls  had  begun  to 
burst,  and  the  "  hands,"  with  their  great 
baskets,  to  trudge  all  day  down  the  long 
rows,  singing  in  that  dreamy,  dolefully 
musical  way  which  belongs  alone  to  the 
tongue  of  the  Southern  blacks,  and  to 
the  Southern  cotton  fields.  Across  the 
fields,  and  the  rich  old  clover  bottoms 
that  formed  a  part  of  the  Hermitage  farm, 
the  buzz  of  the  cotton-gin  could  be  heard, 


Old  Hickory's  Ball  89 

adding  its  own  peculiar  note  to  the  music 
of  Southern  nature. 

A  cotton-gin  !  It  was  a  rare  possession 
those  days,  and  General  Jackson's  was 
known  from  Nashville  to  New  Orleans. 
Indeed,  the  whole  of  the  previous  year's 
cotton  crop  had  not  yet  been  disposed  of. 
The  great  bales  were  heaped  about,  waiting 
for  the  flatboats  that  would  carry  them  up 
the  Cumberland,  down  the  Ohio  and  the 
Mississippi,  and  land  them  at  the  great 
New  Orleans  market.  A  slow  trip  for 
the  bulky  bales.  Could  they  have  fore- 
seen the  time  when  the  tedious  river's 
journey  would  be  shortened  to  one  day's 
run  over  a  steel  track,  what  must  the  big 
bales  have  thought !  And  those  gigantic 
heaps  of  seed  which  all  the  cows  in  the 
country  could  not  consume,  could  they 
have  "  peered  into  the  future  "  and  found 
themselves  in  the  lard  cans  !  As  for  the 
old  gin,  it  would  have  groaned  aloud 
could  it  have  known  that  it  was  buzzing 
itself  into  history  as  surely  as  was  going 


90  Old  Hickory's  Ball 

there  the  tall,  spare,  erect  man  coming 
across  the  field  in  the  late  afternoon  to 
see  that  the  day's  work  was  well  done. 

What  a  heroic  figure  !  and  a  face  that 
even  in  youth  bore  the  impress  of  one 
marked  by  destiny  for  daring  deeds. 
Imperious  in  temper,  majestic  in  courage, 
unyielding  in  will,  he  was  one  born 
to  lay  hold  on  fate  and  bend  it  to  his 
desires.  Yet  was  there  a  timidity  in  that 
eye  which  no  danger  could  make  quail. 
And  when  down  the  lane  there  came  the 
clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  striking  the  hard, 
dry  earth,  and  with  the  horses  a  vision  of 
long,  dark  skirts  waving  like  black  banners 
in  the  breeze,  made  by  the  hurrying  steeds, 
the  owner  of  the  cotton-gin  stepped  within 
the  gin  house,  and  beyond  the  vision  of 
the  lady  visitors. 

But  they  were  not  to  be  outgeneralled 
even  by  a  general ;  and  straight  up  to  the 
gin  the  horses  were  headed. 

"  General  Jackson,"  one  of  the  ladies 
—  there  were  but  two  —  called  to  the 


Old  Hickory's  Ball  91 

timid  hero  who  had  run  away  at  her 
approach.  Instantly  he  appeared.  He 
wore  a  large,  white  beaver  hat,  the  broad 
brim  half  shading  the  clear-cut,  strongly 
outlined  features.  When  he  lifted  it, 
Beauty  herself  could  not  fail  to  see 
the  high  and  noble  forehead,  the  eagle 
eye,  the  delicate  flush  that  swept  across 
the  patrician  features.  "  General  Jackson, 
I  have  come  in  the  name  of  charity.  No, 
no,  you  need  not  take  out  your  wallet. 
We  are  not  asking  money." 

A  smile  played  across  the  strong, 
thin  lips.  "  How  ?  "  said  he,  "  doesn't 
charity  always  mean  c  money  ? '  I  was 
of  the  impression  the  terms  were  syn- 
onymous." 

"  Then  for  once  own  yourself  in  the 
wrong,"  laughed  Beauty.  "  We  have 
come  to  ask  the  privilege  of  a  charity 
ball  at  the  Hermitage." 

"  A  what  ?  " 

"A  charity  ball ;  and  at  the  Hermitage." 

A   most    comically    pleased   expression 


92  Old  Hickory's  Ball 

came  into  the  earnest  eyes  of  the  master 
for  an  instant.  Only  an  instant,  and  then 
a  heavy  frown  contracted  his  forehead. 
A  flash  of  the  eye  and  a  curl  of  the 
sensitive  lip  told  of  the  suppressed  anger 
that  had  suddenly  smitten  him. 

"  The  Hermitage,"  said  he,  "  is  the 
home  of  my  wife.  She  is  its  mistress, 
and  to  her  is  confided  its  honour  and  the 
honour  of  its  master.  To  her,  and  to  her 
alone,  the  right  to  choose  its  guests,  and 
to  open  its  doors  to  her  friends.  I  am 
surprised  you  should  come  to  me  with 
your  request." 

Ah  !  she  was  forearmed  ;  how  fortunate! 
Beauty  smiled  triumphantly.  "  But  your 
servant  who  opened  the  gate  told  us  that 
Mrs.  Jackson  was  not  at  home." 

"  Ah  !  "  The  frown  vanished,  and  the 
hand  ever  ready  to  strike  for  her  he  loved 
with  such  deathless  devotion  was  again 
lifted  to  the  broad  old  beaver. 

"  I  think,"  said  he,  "  in  that  case  I  may 
answer  for  Mrs.  Jackson,  and  pledge  for 


Old  Hickory's  Ball  93 

her  the  hospitality  of  the  Hermitage  for 
—  charity" 

Again  he  lifted  his  hat :  across  the  fields 
the  sound  of  a  whistle  had  come  to  him, 
and  a  servant  waited,  with  polite  patience, 
near  by,  with  the  horse  that  was  to  carry 
his  master  down  to  the  river  where  the 
boats  were  waiting  to  be  inspected,  —  the 
new  boats  which,  like  everything  pertain- 
ing to  the  master  of  the  Hermitage,  were 
to  have  a  place  in  history. 

"  Ladies,"  said  he,  "  Charity  is  not  the 
only  voice  calling  upon  the  Hermitage 
farmer.  Our  country,"  —  he  waved  his 
hand  towards  the  river  where  the  boats 
were  being  builded, — "  or  one  who  nobly 
represents  her,  is  calling  for  those  vessels 
now  in  the  course  of  construction  yonder." 

"  Will  there  be  war  ?  " 

How  the  clear  eyes  danced  and  shone 
beneath  that  question  which  over  and 
over  again  he  had  put  to  his  own  heart : 
"  Will  there  be  war  ?  " 

"  We  hope  so,"  he  replied.      "  All  the 


94  Old  Hickory's  Ball 

West  wishes  it,  the  people  demand  it,  and 
the  time  is  ripe  for  it.  Already  a  leader 
has  been  chosen  for  it ;  those  boats  were 
ordered  by  him." 

"Colonel  Burr?" 

"Aye,  Aaron  Burr." 

The  night  was  balmy  and  deliciously 
fragrant  with  the  odours  of  cedar  and  sweet 
old  pine.  Balmy  and  silent,  save  for  a 
rebellious  mocking-bird  that  trilled  and 
trolled,  and  seemed  trying  to  split  its 
little  throat  in  a  honeysuckle  bush  before 
the  open  window  of  a  "  two-story  "  log 
house  set  back  from  the  road  in  a  tangle 
of  plum-trees,  wild  rose-bushes,  and  sweet 
old  cedars. 

Every  window  was  wide  open,  and  from 
both  windows  and  doors  streamed  a  flood 
of  light,  to  guide  and  welcome  the  guests 
who  came  by  twos,  and  threes,  and  half 
dozens  to  the  Hermitage  ball.  They 
were  not  in  full-dress  array,  for  most  of 
the  guests  were  equestrians,  or  equestri- 


Old  Hickory's  Ball  95 

ennes,  and  brought  their  finery  in  the 
little  leathern  bandboxes  securely  buckled 
to  the  saddle-horse.  Stealthily  the  fair 
ones  dismounted,  and  stealthily  crept 
along  the  low  piazza,  through  the  side 
room,  carefully  past  the  pretentious  "  big 
room,"  and  up  the  stairs,  a  narrow  little 
wooden  concern,  each  tenderly  hugging 
her  precious  bandbox. 

There  were  but  three  rooms  below,  bar- 
ring the  dining-room,  which  was  cut  off  by 
the  low  piazza.  The  stairway  went  up 
from  Mrs.  Jackson's  little  bedroom  into 
a  duplicate  guest-chamber  above.  Two 
others,  as  diminutive,  one  above  and  below, 
were  tucked  on  to  these.  And  this,  with 
the  "  big  room/'  was  the  Hermitage.  A 
very  unpretentious  cabin  was  the  first  Her- 
mitage ;  the  humble  and  honoured  roof 
of  Rachel  and  Andrew  Jackson,  the  couple 
standing  under  the  waxen  candles  in  the 
big  room,  waiting  to  receive  their  guests. 
The  master  was  resplendent,  if  uncom- 
fortable, in  his  silken  stockings,  buckles, 


96  Old  Hickory's  Ball 

and  powder,  and  rich  velvet.  For,  what- 
ever his  faults,  he  was  no  coxcomb,  and 
the  knee-breeches  and  finery  had  only 
been  assumed  for  that  one  occasion,  at 
the  "  special  request "  of  charity's  fair 
committee. 

The  vest  of  richly  embroidered  silk  was 
held  at  the  waist  with  a  glittering  brilliant, 
and  left  open  to  the  throat,  as  though  in 
deference  to  the  flutes,  and  frills,  and 
delicate  laces  of  the  white  shirt-bosom. 
There  was  a  glitter  at  the  knees  where 
the  silver  buckles  caught  now  and  then 
a  gleam  from  the  waxen  candles  dangling 
from  the  low  ceiling  in  a  silver  and  irides- 
cent chandelier,  to  the  imminent  peril  of 
the  white  roll  of  powdered  hair  surmount- 
ing the  tall  general's  forehead.  At  his 
side,  proud,  calm,  and  queenly  in  her 
womanly  dignity  and  virtue,  stood  Rachel, 
the  beloved  mistress  of  the  Hermitage. 
Her  dress  of  stiff  and  creamy  silk  could 
add  nothing  to  the  calm  serenity  of  the 
soul  beaming  from  the  gentle  eyes,  whose 


Old  Hickory's  Ball  97 

glance,  tender  and  fond,  strayed  now  and 
then  to  the  figure  of  her  husband,  and 
rested  for  a  brief  moment  upon  the 
strong,  gentle  face,  with  something  akin 
to  reverence  in  their  shadowy  depths. 
Her  face,  beautiful  and  beneficent,  was 
not  without  a  shadow,  —  a  shadow  which 
grief  had  set  there  to  mellow,  but  could 
not  mar,  the  gentle  sweetness  of  the 
patient  features. 

There  was  the  sound  of  banjo  and 
fiddle,  as  one  by  one  the  dusky  musicians 
from  the  cabins  ranged  themselves  along 
the  wall  of  the  big  room,  which  had  been 
cleared  of  its  furnishings,  and  young  feet 
came  hurrying  in  when  the  old  Virginia 
reel  sounded  through  the  low  rooms, 
calling  to  the  dance. 

More  than  one  set  of  ivories  shone  at 
door  and  windows,  where  the  slaves 
gathered  to  "  see  the  whi'  folks  dance." 
But  prominent  and  conspicuous,  in  a  suit 
as  nearly  resembling  his  master's  as  might 
be,  and  in  a  position  at  the  immediate 


98  Old  Hickory's  Ball 

right  hand  of  the  slave  who  played  the 
bass  viol,  stood  Caesar,  the  general's 
favourite  man-servant.  He  bore  himself 
with  the  same  courtly  dignity,  the  same 
dignified  courtesy,  and  had  stationed  him- 
self beside  the  viol  in  order  to  have  a 
more  thorough  view  of  the  dancers,  and, 
above  all,  of  his  beloved  master.  He  had 
faithfully  ushered  in  the  last  guest,  and 
had  hurried  to  his  place  in  order  to  see 
General  Jackson  step  down  the  long  line 
of  dancers  and  bow  to  his  partner.  Not 
for  worlds  would  he  have  missed  that  bow, 
to  him  the  perfection  of  grace  and  dignity. 

Two  by  two  the  couples  entered,  crossed 
to  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  bowed  each 
other  to  their  places  opposite  in  the 
long,  wall-like  line  which  characterises 
the  stately  reel. 

The  ladies  dropped  like  drooping  lilies 
for  one  brief  moment  in  the  midst  of 
their  silken  stiffness,  skirts  that  "  stood 
alone,"  and  made  their  curtseys  to  their 
swains  with  proper  maiden  modesty. 


Old  Hickory's  Ball  99 

Caesar  saw  it  all  from  his  post  of 
vantage  near  the  big  viol,  but  he  was 
not  interested  in  the  visitors,  —  he  knew 
what  they  could  do.  He  was  waiting  to 
see  his  master  "  lay  'em  all  in  the  shade 
bimeby."  Of  course  he  would  open  the 
ball.  He  wasn't  fond  of  dancing,  but  it 
was  the  custom  of  the  day,  and  he  and 
Miss  Rachel  "  knew  their  manners." 

But  for  once  the  custom  of  the  day  was 
changed.  Caesar  was  destined  to  disap- 
pointment. Mrs.  Jackson's  rustling  silk 
announced  her  approach  before  she  ap- 
peared, leaning,  not  upon  the  arm  of  the 
general,  but  in  company  with  a  florid, 
rather  fleshy  gentleman,  no  stranger,  how- 
ever, to  the  Hermitage  hospitality.  Much 
to  the  negro's  chagrin,  he  led  her  to  the 
very  head  of  the  long  line  of  bright  dresses 
and  gay  gallants,  and  stepped  himself,  as 
Caesar  declared,  "  like  a  young  cock,"  into 
the  general's  own  place  opposite.  The 
master  stood  at  the  very  foot,  the  escort 
of  a  lady  Caesar  had  never  set  eyes  upon 


ioo  Old  Hickory's  Ball 

before,  and  who  for  the  life  of  him  he 
could  not  forgive  for  being  the  general's 
partner. 

He  was  grievously  disappointed,  so 
that  when  the  florid  fat  gentleman  at  the 
head  danced  down  between  the  gay  col- 
umns, and  made  his  manners  to  the  lady 
at  the  foot,  as  gallantly  as  any  one  could 
have  done,  Caesar  expressed  his  opinion 
loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  the  very 
gentleman  himself. 

"  Mr.  Grundy  tryin'  step  mighty  high 
to-night,"  he  said. 

But  it  was  when  "  Miss  Rachel  "  danced 
down  in  her  silken  skirts  and  met  the 
master  midway  the  line,  and  dropped  a 
low  curtsey,  her  full  skirts  settling  about 
her  like  a  great  white  umbrella,  and  the 
stately  general  bowed  over  his  silver 
buckles  like  some  royal  knight  of  old, 
that  Caesar's  enthusiasm  got  the  better  of 
his  indignation. 

"  Beat  dat,  Mr.  Grundy  ! "  he  said,  in  a 
low,  if  enthusiastic,  whisper ;  "  beat  dat, 


Old  Hickory's  Ball  101 

sah."  And  Mr.  Grundy  pranced  down 
again  to  "  beat  "  the  master  in  the  "  swing 
with  the  right "  movement  of  the  old- 
fashioned  dance. 

Promptly  the  general  followed,  meeting 
"  Miss  Rachel "  half-way  with  a  second 
curtsey  over  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  just 
visible  under  the  lace  ruffles  at  her  wrists. 

"  Try  daty  now,  Mr.  Grundy  !  "  And 
this  time  Csesar  forgot  to  whisper,  so  that 
a  burst  of  applause  followed  the  challenge, 
to  Mr.  Grundy' s  extreme  chagrin,  for 
he,  alas !  had  forgotten  his  bow  before 
swinging  the  lady. 

It  was  then  the  dancing  assumed  some- 
thing of  the  appearance  of  real  rivalry. 

Down  the  line  galloped  Mr.  Grundy 
again,  stopped,  bowed,  "swung  with  the 
left,"  and  bowed  again. 

The  general  had  been  outdone ;  even 
Caesar  had  to  admit  it,  and  the  dancers 
laughed  aloud  and  clapped  their  hands  at 
the  pretty  little  gallantry. 

But  the  master  was  equal  to  the  emer- 


102  Old  Hickory's  Ball 

gency.  Again  the  stately  figure  met 
"  Miss  Rachel,"  the  couple  bowed,  swung 
with  the  left,  bowed  again,  hands  still 
clasped,  and  then  the  powdered  head  of 
the  master  dropped  for  an  instant  over 
the  lady's  hand,  that  was  lifted  to  his  lips, 
and  the  dancers  parted. 

Amid  the  spirited  confusion  of  "chasing 
the  fox,"  and  passing  under  the  gates  held 
"  high  as  the  sky,"  and  passing  back  again 
into  line,  Caesar's  voice  could  be  heard  still 
sounding  the  challenge : 

"  Beat  it,  ef  you  kin,  Mr.  Grundy. 
Cbassay  to  yer  best,  Mr.  Grundy  !  Back 
yerse'f  to  de  lead,  Mr.  Grundy  !  " 

Clearly,  Mr.  Grundy  was  not  the  fa- 
vourite. Caesar's  "  backing  "  had  inspired 
confidence  in  the  general. 

However,  if  Mr.  Grundy  was,  as  he 
said,  "  a  cock,"  he  was  nevertheless  a  game 
one.  Down  the  centre  he  tripped  again, 
flushed  and  determined,  curtseyed  exceed- 
ing low,  swung  "  with  both  "  hands,  then 
dropped  for  an  instant  upon  one  knee 


Old  Hickory's  Ball  103 

while  the  lady  tripped  back  into  line. 
There  was  a  murmur  of  quick  appreci- 
ation, and  all  eyes  were  turned  on  General 
Jackson.  Would  he,  could  he,  think  of 
anything  so  delightfully  graceful  ? 

Caesar's  mouth  stood  wide  open.  His 
confidence  in  his  stately  master  never  once 
faltered.  He  knew  he  would  never  suffer 
Felix  Grundy  to  outdo  him  in  the  simple 
matter  of  a  bow.  But  how  ?  What  ? 

Straight  on  came  the  general ;  bowed, 
extended  his  arms,  when,  as  ill  luck  would 
have  it,  he  set  the  toe  of  his  shoe  upon 
the  front  hem  of  "  Miss  Rachel's  "  silken 
gown,  and,  rising  from  her  curtsey,  there 
was  nothing  to  do  but  drop  forward  into 
the  arms  extended,  amid  the  shouts  of  the 
assembled  guests,  emphasised  by  Caesar's 
emphatic  — 

"  Dar  ! " 

He  had  done  a  very  awkward  thing. 
One  of  those  happily  awkward  things 
which  crown  a  man  conqueror  more 
surely  than  all  the  tricks  of  art. 


104  old  Hickory's  Ball 

Nobody  attempted  to  surpass  that  feat, 
and  when  the  couples  had  each  in  turn 
passed  their  parade,  for  such  is  the  old 
Virginia  reel,  and  the  dancers  filed  into 
the  supper-room,  General  Jackson  was 
still,  in  the  judgment  of  his  servant 
at  all  events,  the  master  of  grace  and 
chivalry. 

A  sumptuous  supper  and  worthy  the 
mistress  who  planned  it.  At  the  head  of 
the  table  sat  General  Jackson ;  at  the 
foot,  the  young  statesman  and  guest,  Mr. 
Grundy. 

When  the  company  had  all  been  seated, 
the  master  rose,  his  right  hand  resting 
upon  a  tiny  tumbler  of  red  wine,  such  as 
stood  at  every  plate.  He  motioned  Mr. 
Grundy,  and  lifted  the  tumbler.  "The 
man,"  said  he,  "  honoured  by  fate,  and 
fostered  by  fortune.  The  man  chosen 
and  set  apart  for  the  service  of  the  nation. 
A  man  whose  name  shall  go  down  the 
years  the  synonym  of  courage  and  of 
honour.  The  foremost  man  of  the  age," 


Old  Hickory's  Ball  105 

—  and  the  voice  ever  strong  for  the 
friend,  absent  or  near,  pronounced  the 
name  of  one  at  that  moment  tottering 
upon  the  brink  of  ignominious  destruction 
and  disgrace,  —  "  Aaron  Burr." 

There  was  an  instant  of  intense  silence, 
but  not  a  tumbler  was  lifted.  Insult  to 
the  host,  or  insult  to  conviction  ?  was  the 
thought  which  held  each  guest ;  when 
quick  into  the  breach  stepped  Mr.  Grundy. 
With  one  palm  pressed  upon  the  rim  of 
his  tumbler,  and  with  head  proudly  lifted 
in  a  half  defiant  sternness,  wholly  belying 
the  careless  voice  in  which  he  offered  the 
compromise, "  No  absent  heroes,"  said  he. 
"  In  lieu  of  that  I  offer  Andrew  Jackson  ! 
the  future  President  of  the  United  States 
of  America."  It  was  said  in  jest,  yet  not 
one  but  understood  that  Mr.  Grundy 
refused  to  drink  to  the  man  with  whose 
name  one  stinging,  startling  word  was 
already  cautiously  whispered,  —  traitor. 

General  Jackson's  fine  eye  flashed  ;  but 
courtesy  could  unsheath  no  sword  against 


io6  Old  Hickory's  Ball 

a  guest.  And  after  all,  it  was  nothing. 
A  mere  flash  of  words.  Aye  !  yet  some- 
thing whispered  that  the  flash  carried  a 
meaning,  was,  indeed,  a  spark  from  that 
mightier  flash  of  arms,  that  would,  ere 
long,  blaze  out  at  the  very  mention  of 
that  name. 

The  ball  was  over;  still  wearing  their 
evening  finery  the  master  of  the  Her- 
mitage and  his  wife  sat  over  the  fading 
embers,  smoking  their  "  last  pipe  "  before 
retiring. 

Caesar  had  bowed  the  last  guest  from 
the  door,  and  was  about  to  close  it  for 
the  night,  when  the  sound  of  galloping 
hoofs  attracted  his  attention.  It  was  a  sin- 
gle horseman,  and  he  was  making  straight 
for  the  Hermitage.  The  servant  waited 
under  the  low  piazza,  curious  but  not 
uneasy.  The  horse  stopped  at  the  block, 
and  into  the  long  line  of  light  streaming 
from  the  open  doorway  came  the  figure 
of  a  man,  hurrying  as  if  to  reach  the 


Old  Hickory's  Ball  107 

door  before  it  should  close.  He  had 
ridden  hard,  and  had  barely  arrived  in 
time. 

"  Is  General  Jackson  at  home  ? "  he 
asked.  "  I  must  see  him  to-night,  at 
once.  Tell  him  so." 

The  servant  bowed,  and  silently  ushered 
the  late  arrival  into  the  deserted  banquet- 
room. 

His  keen  eye  took  in  the  surroundings 
with  a  half-amused,  half-bewildered  ex- 
pression. The  banquet-table,  despoiled  of 
its  beauty,  the  half-emptied  wine  glasses, 
the  broken  bits  of  cake,  crumbled  by 
beauty's  fair  fingers ;  the  odour  of  dying 
roses,  smothered  in  their  bloom,  mingled 
with  the  scent  of  the  undrunken  wine  ;  all 
told  the  story  of  revelry  and  its  inevitable 
destiny. 

The  stranger  crossed  the  room  to  the 
pillaged  sideboard,  and  with  the  air  of  a 
man  thoroughly  at  home  found  a  de- 
canter, and,  pouring  a  tumbler  full  of  wine, 
lifted  it  carelessly  to  his  lips,  drained  it, 


io8  Old  Hickory's  Ball 

and  with  the  emptied  vessel  still  in  his 
hand  turned  to  meet  the  master  of  the 
house. 

He  still  wore  the  finery  in  which  he 
had  decked  himself  for  the  ball.  In  one 
hand  he  carried  his  pipe,  over  which  he 
had  been  dozing  with  Rachel.  But  the 
eye  was  alive  now ;  that  quick,  eagle  eye. 
The  ball  had  become  a  thing  of  the  past. 
And  as  he  stood  for  one  brief  moment  in 
the  doorway,  himself  in  his  gala  dress, 
seemed  but  another  illustration  of  that 
indomitable  grimness  which  hangs  about 
a  forsaken  banquet-room.  At  that  mo- 
ment the  stranger  lifted  his  face.  It  was 
a  face  stamped  with  the  cunning  of  a  fox, 
the  courage  of  a  lion,  the  simplicity  of  a 
child,  the  ambition  of  a  god. 

The  master  met  the  cool,  fixed  eye, 
and  into  his  own  leaped  the  smothered 
fire  of  outraged  dignity.  He  lifted  his 
hand,  as  though  to  curse : 

"  Do  you  know,  sir,  that  the  world  is 
branding  you  a  traitor  ?  And  that  Felix 


Old  Hickory's  Bail  109 

Grundy  refused  to  drink  your  health  in 
my  house  to-night  ? " 

A  sneer  flitted  across  the  handsome 
features,  but  the  low,  rich  voice  only  said, 
"Let  him." 

It  was  the  voice  of  Aaron  Burr. 


A   Scrap   of  College   Lore 


FROM  the  old  homestead   kitchen  a 
voice  rang  out  in  song.    The  dreamy, 
drawling   pathos   of  the    music    betrayed 
the  nationality,  no  less  than  the  sex  of 
the  singer. 

"  Free  grace  an'  dyen'  love, 
Free  grace  an'  dyen'  love, 
Free  grace  an'  dyen'  love, 
Ter  wash  me  white  as  snow." 

Over  and  over  again,  in  the  cracked, 
crazy  voice  of  an  old  woman,  a  negress  ; 
but  withal  full  of  a  strong,  strange  faith, 
that  seemed  to  fix  itself  upon  something 
unseen  but  felt,  and  to  cling  there,  and 
hold. 

The   woman  was    busy  preparing   the 


no 


A  Scrap  of  College  Lore        1 1 1 

early  supper;  for  the  sun  would  soon 
drop  behind  the  ragged  old  oaks  that 
studded  the  west  lawn,  and  the  master 
of  the  house  would  expect  his  beaten 
biscuit,  whether  he  came  at  sunset  or  at 
midnight.  Andjust  as  like  to  come  at  one 
time  as  at  the  other,  was  the  profligate 
young  master. 

It  would  have  been  difficult  to  per- 
suade old  Tildy  that  he  was  not  the  mas- 
ter of  the  house,  although  the  old  master's 
last  will  and  testament  made  it  appear  so. 
Handsome,  reckless,  and  dissipated  to  the 
last  degree,  he  was,  nevertheless,  to  the  old 
slave-mammy,  the  same  young  master  com- 
mitted to  her  care  by  the  real  master,  in 
that  same  will  which  had  seemingly  cast 
him  off.  That  was  five  years  before ;  it 
was  nine  years  since  the  mistress  had  com- 
mitted the  young  master  likewise  to  her 
love  and  care.  He  was  still  young,  and 
the  only  one  of  the  seven  children  born  to 
the  squire  and  his  wife  that  had  passed 
beyond  the  years  of  early  childhood.  And 


H2        A  Scrap  of  College  Lore 

he  had  broken  their  hearts  ;  had  begun 
early  upon  the  downward  road,  and  kept 
steadily  on  all  those  years.  Thinking  of 
those  years,  the  biscuit  beater  made  a 
sudden  stop,  as  if  the  years,  those  heavy 
weights,  had  snapped,  broken  by  their 
own  heaviness. 

The  old  woman  leaned  upon  the 
wooden  handle,  and  watched,  her  face  to 
the  kitchen  window,  the  last  rays  of  the 
sunset  creeping  across  the  bare,  brown 
cotton  field,  and  tinging  the  gnarled  oaks 
of  the  lawn  with  purple  and  red  and  dull 
amber.  An  azure  haze  followed  the  sun- 
light, creeping  up  from  the  river  beyond 
the  field,  —  Stone  River  in  the  heart  of 
Tennessee. 

The  face  turned  to  the  sunset  was 
seamed  and  broken,  but  such  a  face.  An 
artist,  catching  the  fervour  of  devotion, 
the  magnetic  mingling  of  pain  and  pride, 
lightened  by  the  finer  lines  of  faith,  the 
whole  mellowed  by  that  chastened  pa- 
tience which  is  born  of  love  and  sorrow, 


A  Scrap  of  College  Lore        1 13 

would  have  held  his  breath,  lest  fancy 
cheat  him  of  an  ideal,  a  something  in 
bronze,  that  should  puzzle  the  world  for 
a  name. 

She  was  watching  the  azure  shadows 
creeping  across  the  cotton  field ;  the 
azure  mist  stirred  sleeping  memories, 
leading  the  slave-woman  back  where  the 
smoke  circled  above  a  light-boat,  plying 
somewhere  along  the  Virginia  waters. 
There  was  a  slave-prison,  and  a  market- 
place ;  and  a  woman,  a  strong,  silent 
woman,  who  held  a  little  child  by  the 
hand. 

The  woman  was  her  mother,  the  child 
herself,  a  baby  of  six  years.  She  hid  her 
face  in  the  woman's  dress  while  a  shrill 
voice  called  for  "  a  bid."  A  bid  for  a 
"  likely  nigger,  going  for  a  song." 

"  Fifty  dollars  ! "  there  came  a  bid. 
The  hand  clasping  the  child's  grew  cold, 
the  clasp  closer. 

Then  a  voice,  —  she  remembered  that 
voice  in  her  dreams  sometimes,  even  yet, 


ii4        A  Scrap  of  College  Lore 

—  that  voice  sweeter  than  music,  that  had 
said,  "  One  hundred." 

One  hundred  dollars  for  a  baby  !  He 
had  carried  her  home  in  his  lap,  before 
him  on  the  saddle ;  and  the  heart  of  the 
strong  old  woman  who  had  held  the  child's 
hand  had  gone  with  him. 

She  had  crept  to  his  feet  and  begged 
leave  to  hug  her  baby,  "just  once,  good 
marster,"  before  she  herself  should  be 
shipped  to  New  Orleans. 

"  Don't  beat  her,  marster  !  "  —  the 
slave's  prayer  still  sobbed  upon  the  winds 
of  memory.  "  Don't  beat  her !  she's  only 
a  nigger,  but  she's  my  baby  !  dont  beat 
her ! " 

And  the  promise  given  had  been  faith- 
fully kept  by  the  then  young  master. 
"  Never  a  lick  shall  she  have,  so  help  me 
heaven." 

The  sunlight  faded  from  the  field,  the 
amber  and  red  left  the  oak-trees,  the 
shadows  deepened.  Before  the  slave's 
eye  came  the  face  of  one  fast  in  the 


A  Scrap  of  College  Lore        115 

agonies  of  death,  —  a  gentle  face,  —  a 
broken-hearted  mother's  face.  It  lay 
upon  her  arm. 

"  My  boy,"  the  white  lips  whispered. 
"  My  poor,  poor  boy  !  Mam-Tildy  ?  " 

"  I'm  here,  mistiss." 

She  put  her  black  face  close  to  the 
gentle  white  one. 

"  As  I  have  dealt  with  you,  Mam- 
Tildy." 

She  understood,  true  old  slave-heart. 

"  I'll  foller  him  ter  de  grave,  mistiss, 
an'  hand  him  inter  heaben  ter  yer,  ef  de 
good  Lord  spar's  me." 

Since  then,  when  duty  seemed  too  hard, 
and  devotion  reaped  only  ingratitude,  she 
heard  again,  in  dreams,  the  soft  voice 
pleading : 

"  As  I  have  dealt  with  you,  Mam- 
Tildy." 

And  waking,  the  old  heart  had  renewed 
to  itself  the  promise, "  I'll  foller  him  ter 
de  grave,  an'  hand  him  inter  heaben  ter 
his  mammy,  ef  de  good  Lord  spar's  me." 


1 1 6        A  Scrap  of  College  Lore 

The  old  master  slept  beside  the  young 
mistress,  in  the  family  burying-ground 
beyond  the  meadow,  in  sight  of  the  gen- 
tle waters  of  Stone  River.  His  proud  old 
heart  had  broken,  too.  The  tears  rolled 
down  the  woman's  dark  cheek  as  she 
recalled  the  last  night  on  the  old  planta- 
tion, when  it  rained,  and  rained,  and  the 
storm  rattled  at  the  windows,  and  the 
river  burst  its  banks,  flooding  meadow 
and  field,  until  the  cries  of  the  drowning 
things  down  in  the  low  ground  rang 
through  the  house  piteously. 

Such  a  night !  such  a  pitiless  night,  and 
black  with  despair  !  An  old  man  waited, 
that  black  night,  with  bowed  head,  for  a 
step ;  a  boy's  careless  step ;  waiting  and 
listening  while  the  storm  beat  furiously. 
Oh,  these  footsteps  of  erring  children ! 
Note  ye  the  hell  or  heaven  they  carry ! 
The  gray  dawn  shivered  at  the  window 
like  a  frozen  foundling ;  and  a  song, 
a  senseless,  drunken  song,  reached  the 
strained  ears  of  the  master.  A  reeling 


A  Scrap  of  College  Lore        117 

figure  tottered  up  the  strong  old  stairs,  a 
shuffling,  loathsome  thing,  calling  himself 
his  son,  and  who,  but  for  the  will  that  day 
executed,  would  have  inherited  those  fair 
Tennessee  lands,  to  be  squandered  in 
drunken  college  revels. 

The  disappointment  was  too  bitter.  A 
shot  rang  out.  The  old  man  could  bear 
the  burden  of  his  son  no  longer. 

The  will  left  the  plantation  house  to 
the  old  nurse,  the  baby  bought  at  Rich- 
mond six  and  forty  years  before.  The 
balance  of  the  great  fortune  had  been 
squandered  long  ago. 

There  Mam-Tildy's  dreaming  always 
ended.  She  came  back  to  her  biscuit 
beating  at  this  point,  to  protest,  as 
usual. 

"  It  orter  be  Marse  Hal's  house,"  she 
said  to  the  dough,  crisping  beneath  the 
blows  she  laid  upon  it.  "  Ef  I  cud  sell 
it  I  cud  pay  his  debts  ter-morrer." 

That  was  precisely  what  the  old  master 
meant  she  should  not  do,  when  he  had  tied 


1 1 8        A  Scrap  of  College  Lore 

the  property  against  the  young  reprobate, 
his  son  and  lawful  heir. 

Mam-Tildy  would  take  care  of  him, 
but  he  would  not  take  care  of  Mam- 
Tildy  ;  and  therefore  the  will  had  judi- 
ciously set  the  property  in  the  safer 
hands. 

It  was  hers,  Mam-Tildy's,  "  during  her 
natural  life." 

"  But  it  orter  been  Marse  Hal's,"  she 
declared  ;  "  he  needs  it  mighty  bad." 

She  spread  the  dough  with  the  cedar 
rolling-pin,  rolling  it  to  a  precise  thick- 
ness and  keeping  a  kind  of  time  to  the 
song  with  which  she  had  begun  her  task : 

"  Free  grace  an'  dyen'  love, 
Free  grace  an'  dyen'  love, 
Ter  wash  me  white  as  snow. 
Way  ober  Jord'n,  Lord  —  " 

The  song  abruptly  ended.  Some  one 
came  up  the  gravelled  walk  ;  a  quick,  boy- 
ish step  ;  a  step  she  knew  full  well,  al- 
though it  did  not  stagger  now,  as  was  its 


A  Scrap  of  College  Lore        119 

wont.  It  ran,  or  the  owner  of  it  ran, 
straight  across  the  piazza,  into  the  kitchen  ; 
and  although  the  hand  placed  on  Mam- 
Tildy's  arm  shook,  she  knew  the  young 
master  was  not  drunk. 

"  Hide  me  !  Mam-Tildy,  hide  me  !  " 
he  gasped.  "  I  have  killed  a  man,  and 
they  are  after  me  !  " 

There  was  a  boyish  ring  in  the  voice, 
despite  the  situation,  that  belonged  wholly 
to  Hal  Gordon's  character;  a  carelessness 
which  had  so  annoyed  the  old  squire,  his 
father,  who  called  it  "  dare-devilism,"  and 
which  Mam-Tildy  noticed  even  in  the 
extremity  of  her  distress. 

She  gave  a  hurried  glance  around  the 
kitchen,  then  shoved  her  biscuit-board 
aside,  and  pointed  to  the  large  empty 
barrel  upon  which  the  board  rested. 

The  next  moment  the  board  was  in  its 
place  again,  she  was  rolling  her  dough  and 
singing : 

"  Free  grace  an'  dyen'  love, 
Ter  wash  me  white  as  snow." 


I2O        A  Scrap  of  College  Lore 

The  sheriff's  posse  coming  down  the 
piazza  had  detected  no  break  in  the  song ; 
and  the  sheriff  himself  saw  nothing  odd 
in  the  fact  that  he  had  to  call  twice  from 
the  kitchen  doorway  before  the  busy  old 
negress  turned  to  hear  his  demand  for 
Harry  Gordon,  the  runaway  from  justice. 

She  dropped  the  rolling-pin  with  a  great 
clatter;  perhaps  because  she  heard  a  de- 
fiant little  laugh  in  the  barrel ;  perhaps 
because  she  was,  as  the  officer  thought, 
so  taken  by  surprise. 

"  Marster,"  she  begged,  "  don't  tease  a 
pore  ole  nigger  dat  er  way.  Ef  Marse 
Hal  hab  done  somefin,  shore  miff,  for  de 
love  ob  God,  don't  stan'  dar  foolin',  but 
tell  ole  Tildy  an'  let  her  go  to  him." 

She  had  rubbed  the  dough  from  her 
hands  and  taken  off  her  apron ;  the  tears 
were  raining  down  her  cheeks  when  she 
reached  for  her  sunbonnet  hanging  upon 
a  convenient  peg. 

The  men  were  completely  disarmed ; 
touched  to  the  quick  by  her  prompt 


A  Scrap  of  College  Lore        121 

response  to  the  danger  threatening  the 
beloved  master. 

"  Go  back,  aunt  Tildy,"  said  the 
sheriff.  "He  isn't  worth  your  affection. 
You  can't  go  to  him,  for  we  have  not 
yet  found  him.  Go  back  to  your  dough, 
and  don't  waste  any  more  sleep  on  that 
ungrateful  scamp." 

They  left  her,  with  her  apron  before 
her  eyes,  rocking  to  and  fro,  and  moaning. 

"  Ter  de  grave  !  ter  de  grave !  "  she 
sobbed.  "  I  promused  his  mammy.  Yes, 
Lord,  good  Lord,  ter  de  grave." 

That  night  the  fugitive  received  the 
coins,  all  Mam-Tildy's  ready  money, 
which  she  poured  into  his  hand,  and 
stole  away  under  cover  of  darkness. 

"  Ef  I  cud  jest  sell  the  place,  little 
marster,"  she  said  at  parting,  "  de  money 
ud  fetch  you  out  o*  danger." 

"  Damn  the  place ! "  was  the  reply. 
"  Only  let  me  get  well  away  from  it ;  it 
is  getting  too  all-fired  hot  here  to  suit  my 
fancy." 


122        A  Scrap  of  College  Lore 

He  drew  his  coat  about  his  ears,  a  soft, 
fashionably  made  garment,  and  started 
towards  the  door.  Twice  he  looked  back. 
The  old  nurse  sat  in  a  corner  with  her 
apron  over  her  head,  rocking  and  moaning. 

She  had  sat  thus,  in  that  very  corner, 
the  night  his  mother  died.  He  went 
back,  and  laid  his  hand  lightly  upon  her 
head. 

"  Mam-Tildy,"  he  said,  "  I'll  write  to 
you  if  ever  I  land  beyond  the  county  jail, 
and  you  shall  come  to  me.  Hush  !  I 
swear  it.  Good-bye  now.  If  I  ever 
should  get  to  heaven,  Mam-Tildy,  — 
mind,  I  don't  expect  to,  but  if  I  should, 
—  it  will  be  your  work." 

He  laughed  softly,  and,  stooping,  put 
his  lips  to  the  apron  covering  her  head. 
She  could  not  see  that,  despite  the  laugh, 
the  boyish  blue  eyes  held  tears ;  nor  did 
she  understand  that  he  knew  that  never 
again  would  he  set  free  foot  upon  the 
threshold  of  the  once  proud  old  homestead. 

She  only  knew  that  he  passed  out  with 


A  Scrap  of  College  Lore        123 

a  curse  and  a  low  rippling  laugh,  and  that 
her  old  heart  was  very  desolate. 

The  next  day  news  came ;  he  had  been 
taken.  The  man  he  had  shot  lived  a 
week,  and  in  two  months  the  murderer 
had  received  his  sentence,  life  servitude  in 
the  State  prison. 

She  rented  the  house,  and  followed  him 
to  the  loathsome  den  in  the  mountains 
which  had  been  dignified  by  the  name  of 
Branch  Prison.  It  had  been  by  special 
pleading  of  his  attorney,  and  for  his  frail 
health,  that  he  had  been  removed  to  the 
Branch.  He  knew  it  was  the  old  black 
mammy's  work.  Her  little  whitewashed 
cabin  stood  upon  a  green  rise  between  the 
stockade  and  the  coal  mine  ;  from  either  the 
door  or  the  window  she  could  see  him  at 
morning  and  evening  going  to  and  coming 
from  his  work.  At  noon  she  often  went 
down  where  the  men  were  eating  their  din- 
ner, to  carry  him  something  hot  from  her 
own  kitchen.  He  laughed  at  her  for  this, 


124        A  Scrap  of  College  Lore 

telling  her  it  was  as  foolish  as  her  old 
song  of  "  Free  grace  and  dying  love." 

One  evening  a  squad  of  convicts  com- 
ing in  from  the  mine  heard  her  singing, 
in  that  quaint,  quavering  treble,  that  same 
old  hymn,  and  laughed,  making  many  a 
joke  of  the  song  and  singer.  Odd,  how 
those  in  its  worst  extremity  make  the  light- 
est jest  of  life,  —  solemn,  serious  old  life 
with  its  burdens  and  heartaches.  He 
who  laughs  at  life  is  apt  to  cry  out  against 
death.  The  convicts  laughed  at  the  old 
crone  and  her  song ;  the  convicts,  black- 
ened with  coal,  and  with  that  deeper  stain 
—  sin.  The  one  who  laughed  loudest 
was  a  young  man  of  perhaps  five  and 
twenty  years.  Dissipation  had  been  some- 
what obliterated  from  the  boyish  face  by 
five  years'  imprisonment  and  confinement 
in  the  underground  workshops  —  the 
mines. 

The  complexion  was  as  fair  and  delicate 
as  a  child's ;  and  the  hands,  which  Mam- 
Tildy  kept  carefully  provided  with  gloves, 


A  Scrap  of  College  Lore         125 

were  small  and  white,  and  delicately  fem- 
inine. He  had  changed  but  little;  in  all 
but  dissipation,  so  far  as  any  one  knew, 
he  was  the  same  Harry  Gordon  of  five 
years  before. 

"  Yer  mammy's  singing  for  ye,  sonny," 
laughed  one  of  the  squad. 

"  I  wonder  where  she  got  that  queer 
song,"  said  another.  "  There  isn't  so 
much  in  the  words,  yet  somehow  it  makes 
a  fellow  want  to  go  home  to  his  mammy." 

Again  there  was  a  laugh ;  life  is  such  a  jest. 

"  Because  it's  'free,'  I  reckon,"  said  a 
third.  "  It's  the  only  thing  hereabouts 
that  is." 

"It  is  the  first  thing  I  remember  to 
have  ever  heard,"  said  Hal,  who,  as  a  rule, 
had  but  little  to  say  to  the  men.  "  She 
trotted  me  on  her  knees  and  sang  it.  I 
think  she  sang  it  the  day  I  was  born,  and 
I  expect  she  will  sing  it  at  my  funeral,  if 
mine  chances  to  get  in  ahead  of  hers." 

Then  the  squad  passed  on  up  the  hot, 
coal-sooted  path  to  the  stockade  gate,  and 


126        A  Scrap  of  College  Lore 

stood  a  moment  to  be  counted.  The 
old  woman's  song  still  reached  their  ears, 
faintly,  — 

"  Free  grace  an'  dyen'  love, 
Ter  wash  me  white  as  snow." 

The  chains  rattled,  the  gate  swung  back, 
and  the  squad  went  in.  There  was  no 
trace  of  emotion  of  any  kind  in  any  of 
their  faces,  except  in  the  face  of  Gordon ; 
he  was  smiling. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  stood  before  his 
cell  door,  humming  under  his  breath, — 

"  Free  grace  and  dying  love, 
To  wash  me  white  —  ' ' 

"  What  a  funny  old  song,"  said  he. 
"  I  wonder  what  it  means,  anyhow.  '  Free 
grace  and  dying  love : '  I  shall  ask  Mam- 
Tildy  next  visit  she  makes  to  my  State 
apartment." 

He  laughed  again  in  that  half  merry, 
half  defiant,  boyish  way,  and  drew  the 
little  iron  door  open. 

As  it  swung  back  he  glanced  up  at  a 


A  Scrap  of  College  Lore        127 

bit  of  dainty  carving  just  above  the  en- 
trance to  his  cell. 

It  was  done  in  Latin,  daintily,  dexter- 
ously done,  with  his  own  pearl-handled 
penknife. 

"Err are  est  bumanum." 

That  was  all  of  the  college  lore  he  had 
carried  out  into  the  world  with  him.  All 
the  use  he  had  found  for  it  was  to  make 
a  motto  for  a  felon's  cell.  His  college 
course,  like  his  life  course,  ended  in  a 
convict's  cell.  Ended,  summed  up,  in 
that  one  sentence,  Errare  est  bumanum. 

He  laughed,  as  he  divested  himself  of 
his  mining  clothes.  The  cleanly  and  care- 
ful were  allowed  a  second  suit;  he  was 
cleanly  enough,  and  Mam-Tildy  would 
have  been  more  than  satisfied  if  he  had 
been  half  as  careful  with  his  soul  as  he  was 
with  the  coarse  prison  uniform. 

He  was  thinking  of  the  motto ;  that 
little  Latin  device  had  wrought  so  many 
amusing  incidents. 


128        A  Scrap  of  College  Lore 

First,  Mam-Tildy,  when  she  came  to 
bring  the  sweet  cakes  she  had  made  for 
him,  had  asked  what  the  inscription  meant. 
How  the  old  face  had  lighted  up  when  he 
told  her ;  and  it  had  ever  afterward  been 
impossible  to  convince  the  old  woman 
that  it  was  a  mere  bit  of  handiwork, 
utterly  without  heart  on  the  part  of  the 
convict. 

The  prison  chaplain,  too,  had  caught 
sight  of  the  carving,  and  had  straightway 
come  into  the  cell,  his  mild  eyes  full  of 
tears,  and  pressed  the  hand  of  the  convict- 
student,  and,  kneeling  by  the  little  iron 
prison  bunk,  had  prayed,  prayed,  with  the 
beads  upon  his  brow,  and  agony  in  every 
feature,  yet  not  once  opening  his  lips  for 
words.  And  Hal  had  stood  by,  that  old 
boyish  smile  parting  his  daintily  curved 
lips  while  the  old  chaplain  prayed.  He 
laughed  aloud  when  later  he  had  found 
the  chaplain's  card  upon  his  little  shelf. 
The  bit  of  white  pasteboard  bore  his  own 
little  motto  in  Latin,  to  which  the  pious 


A  Scrap  of  College  Lore        129 

man  had  added  in  pencil,  "  Condonare  est 
divinum" 

That  pleased  Mam-Tildy  mightily, 
when  he  told  her  about  it ;  and  she  had 
teased  him  to  add  the  preacher's  "  sign  " 
to  his  own  above  the  door,  but  he  had 
laughingly  refused. 

The  "  sign  "  had  amused  him  greatly ; 
one  morning,  he  remembered,  a  new  gang 
had  arrived  at  the  Branch.  Among  the 
convicts  was  a  young  man  convicted  of 
murder  in  the  second  degree,  and  sen- 
tenced to  ten  years  in  the  pen.  In  his 
native  town  he  was  considered  a  dangerous 
character;  a  boy  utterly  without  friends, 
since  the  college  career  had  broken  his 
mother's  heart. 

Hal  came  upon  the  man  the  morning 
of  his  arrival  at  the  prison.  He  was 
standing  in  the  corridor  before  young 
Gordon's  cell ;  he  still  wore  his  ball  and 
chain,  and  he  was  manacled  with  iron,  just 
as  the  guard  had  left  him.  He  was  gaz- 
ing at  the  Latin  inscription  above  the  door. 


130        A  Scrap  of  College  Lore 

"  To  err  is  human"  He  had  met  only 
upbraidings,  reproaches,  doubts,  revilings. 
That  little  Latin  device  was  the  first  hint 
of  forbearance  that  had  ever  seemed  to 
come  to  him  ;  the  first  whisper  of  condo- 
lence or  of  condonation  that  had  ever 
touched  his  wretched,  ill-spent  life  since 
he  began  his  downward  career.  It  came 
like  a  breath  from  paradise.  He  forgot 
his  chains,  his  handcuffs,  the  long  score  of 
crime-blotted  years.  The  sweet  old  boy- 
hood time  came  crowding  back;  he  chased 
the  ball  across  the  college  campus  ;  pored 
over  his  Greek  and  Latin  under  the  sweet 
old  maple-trees. 

"  Errare  est  humanum"  It  was  one  of 
those  mysterious  messages  that  strike 
straight  for  the  soul,  and,  battering  its 
wall  of  rebellion  down,  make  an  abode 
there.  The  ten  years'  term  was  com- 
muted to  five ;  the  five  by  "  good  time 
made "  became  four ;  and  one  morning 
the  prison  door  swung  back  and  he 
passed  out,  a  free  man. 


A  Scrap  of  College  Lore        131 

He  had  been  very  fond  of  young  Gor- 
don, fancying  that  to  him  he  was  indebted 
for  his  reformation ;  had  wept  upon  his 
shoulder  at  parting,  and  begged  to  be  re- 
membered sometimes.  Hal  remembered 
that  he  had  laughed  and  pushed  him  off; 
the  merry  sparkle  still  danced  in  his  blue 
eyes  when  the  two  said  good-bye,  for  ever. 
They  were  totally  unlike.  Strange  he 
should  have  carved  the  inscription  above 
his  door :  he,  so  light,  so  shallow,  so  in- 
different. Even  Mam-Tildy  had  begged 
of  him  to  "  try  en  be  sober,  en  see  things 
as  they  is." 

"  Sober  !  "  he  had  replied.  "It  is  bad 
enough  to  be  here,  Mam-Tildy,  but  it  is 
lucky  I  can  laugh  over  it." 

"  Naw  'tain't,  little  marster,"  she  sobbed. 
"  It  am  like  slappin'  ob  de  good  Lord  in 
de  face.  'Tain't  allus  right  ter  laff;  it  am 
better  ter  cry  en  ter  laff  sometimes,  Marse 
Hal." 

Yes,  his  scrap  of  college  lore  had  stood 
him  well.  The  lady  missionaries  to  the 


132        A  Scrap  of  College  Lore 

prison  had  been  attracted  by  it;  read  a 
story  of  high  birth,  strong  temptation, 
and  earnest  repentance  in  the  simple 
words,  and  gave  him  special  prayer.  It 
was  as  though  a  dignified,  refined  sorrow 
hid  in  the  old  college  exercise.  All  who 
saw  it  conceived  a  tender  interest  in  the 
fair-faced  young  convict.  A  glamour  of 
romance  gathered  about  him.  Young 
girls  sought  his  cell  with  flowers  and 
gifts  of  jewels ;  even  the  old  ladies  sent 
in  pretty  bits  of  needlework  to  decorate 
the  cell  of  "  the  poor  student." 

"  To  err  is  human  !  "  What  an  appeal ; 
and  to  go  up  from  that  black  hole ;  and 
from  a  soul  cultivated ;  used  to  the  higher 
walks.  Why,  it  was  as  though  he  said, 
"  Careful,  careful  now  how  you  judge,  — 
the  way  is  slippery,  and  to  err  is  human. 
Your  own  feet  —  " 

He  was  very  peaceable  and  good-na- 
tured ;  the  guards  and  wardens  all  liked 
him,  although  they  still  continued  to  won- 
der if  the  lightness  was  genuine,  or  if  the 


A  Scrap  of  College  Lore        133 

man  truly  had  no  feeling.  He  seldom 
gave  evidence  of  any,  either  of  impatience, 
or  rebellion,  or  of  temper.  He  always 
did  his  work,  just  what  was  required  of 
him  ;  never  a  lick  beyond  or  a  blow  below 
the  requisite  amount.  The  miners  called 
him  a  "  lazybones "  at  first ;  but  when 
they  saw  that  always  his  work  was  faith- 
fully and  exactly  done,  they  gave  that  up, 
remembering  how  their  own  went  beyond 
the  requirement  to-day,  and  to-morrow  fell 
far  below  it.  Nobody  ever  thought  the 
peculiarity  might  have  been  a  lack  of  am- 
bition, for  nobody  cared  especially ;  they 
only  knew  there  was  a  peculiarity.  His 
hands  were  always  clean,  conspicuously 
clean,  down  the  long  prison  dining-table 
where  the  hard-fisted  coal  diggers  were  at 
their  meals.  He  never  held  aloof  from  the 
others,  yet  they  seemed  to  feel,  instinc- 
tively, that  he  was  apart  from  and  above 
them.  It  was  because  of  the  Latin  over 
his  cell.  His  was  a  life  sentence  ;  he  had 
no  hope  of  reaching  the  outside  world 


134        A  Scrap  of  College  Lore 

again,  and  he  seldom  gave  it  a  thought, 
except  to  laugh  at  Mam-Tildy's  foolish 
fancies  that  he  would  some  day  gain  a 
pardon  by  some  great  deed  of  heroism. 
There  was  a  hint  in  these  foolish  fancies, 
if  he  had  but  considered  it.  But  he  did 
not  consider,  —  considering  meant  melan- 
choly, discontent.  So  he  put  aside  all 
unpleasant  comparisons  and  unavailing 
longings ;  he  read  the  books  the  old 
nurse  brought  him,  played  with  the 
flowers  sent  him,  and  munched  the  deli- 
cacies left  every  day  at  his  door,  much  the 
same  way  that  he  ate  the  coarse  prison 
fare,  and  with  the  laughing  indifference 
with  which  he  had  met  his  mother's  tears 
and  his  father's  curse. 

They  tried  to  make  a  hero  of  him  be- 
cause of  the  Latin,  but  he  did  not  respond 
to  the  effort ;  nothing  in  him  responded 
to  the  heroic  in  any  sense.  Only  to  poor 
old  Mam-Tildy,  in  her  tireless  devotion, 
her  daily  pilgrimage  to  his  cell  with  clean 
sheets,  a  white  counterpane,  fresh  under- 


A  Scrap  of  College  Lore        135 

clothing,  never  without  some  offering, — 
only  to  her  was  vouchsafed  an  abiding 
hope,  a  faith  that  at  last,  at  last,  the  little 
marster  would  "  see  things  right." 

One  morning  when,  having  received 
permission  to  do  so,  she  was  scouring 
out  his  cell,  and  singing  in  the  old  familiar 
way,  he  stopped  on  his  way  to  join  the 
mine  gang,  and  said : 

"  Mam-Tildy,  that  is  a  funny  old  song 
of  yours.  What  does  it  mean,  anyhow, 
your  *  free  grace  and  dying  love  ? ' 

She  paused  in  her  work,  and  looked  up 
at  him  from  her  knees,  where  she  had  crept 
in  order  to  carry  her  scouring-cloth  well 
under  his  bed.  There  was  a  perplexed, 
worried  look  in  the  faded  old  eyes.  What 
did  "  free  grace  "  mean  ?  Free  grace  and 
dying  love.  Oh,  for  words,  words,  that 
might  tell  him  the  meaning  of  that  grace, 
that  love  !  She  knew ;  her  soul  had  rec- 
ognised the  meaning  long  ago  ;  but  the 
poor  old  tongue  had  no  cunning. 

She  shook  her  head,  —  gray  it  was, — 


136        A  Scrap  of  College  Lore 

carefully  bound  in  a  white,  knotted  hand- 
kerchief. 

"  You'll  know  some  day,  little  marster," 
she  said.  "  I  can't  tell  yer,  honey ;  ole 
Tildy  ain't  got  much  sense ;  but  you'll 
know  what  free  grace  am  some  day." 

That  noon,  at  the  counting  of  the  pris- 
oners, he  was  absent.  There  is  always  a 
thrill  follows  the  announcement  that  a 
convict  is  missing.  Escaped  ?  Dead  ? 
Pardoned  ?  Gordon  was  neither ;  he  was 
lying  on  an  iron  bunk  in  the  hospital, — 
unconscious,  in  a  deadly  stupor;  white 
and  innocent-looking  as  a  little  child.  A 
little  child,  —  he  was  like  a  child  in  many 
things ;  yet  he  had  broken  many  hearts, 
his  old  father's,  his  poor  mother's,  and, 
last  of  all,  Mam-Tildy's. 

He  had  been  hurt  down  in  the  mine; 
but  before  the  news  had  fairly  reached  the 
stockade,  the  old  negress  was  at  the  mouth 
of  the  pit,  and  would  have  gone  on,  right 
into  that  roar  of  nauseous  gas  and  stifling 
sulphur,  only  that  a  guard  prevented  her. 


A  Scrap  of  College  Lore        137 

"  Stop,  aunty,"  he  said,  "  you  can't  pass 
there." 

The  old  eyes  filled. 

"  Oh,  marster,  fur  de  lub  ob  God, 
lemme  go  ter  him ! "  she  begged. 

"No,  come  back;  the  tunnel  is  full  of 
gas  and  smoke  and  falling  slate.  You  can 
do  him  no  earthly  good.  Come  back,  I 
tell  you ! " 

"  Marster,  I  promised  his  mammy  ter 
foller  him  ter  de  grave  itse'f." 

She  was  moving  right  on,  and  weeping ; 
not  heeding,  if  indeed  hearing,  the  com- 
mand to  "  come  back." 

"  I  promised  ole  Mis'  "  —  the  smoke 
was  stifling.  Again  the  guard  called  to 
her: 

"  Will  you  come  back  ? " 

"  Naw,  marster,  I  won't,  I  can't,"  —  she 
was  already  in,  beyond  the  black  opening. 
"  My  feet  wouldn't  turn  back  ef  I  tried  ter 
make  'em  ter ;  lemme  go  !  "  Her  voice 
came  back  to  him  from  the  tunnel,  muffled 
and  seeming  afar  off.  "  Fur  de  lub  ob 


138        A  Scrap  of  College  Lore 

God,  lemme  go  ter  him.  I  —  promised 
—  ole  — Mis'  — " 

The  words  were  a  wail  of  agony  and 
devotion. 

They  brought  him  out,  however,  by 
another  tunnel,  and  the  guard  sent  some 
one  in  to  tell  Mam-Tildy.  When  she 
came  back  they  carried  him  up  to  the 
prison  hospital,  and  all  the  town  knew  of 
the  "  little  student's  "  injury. 

Feeble,  and  old,  and  heart-broken,  the 
old  nurse  tottered  to  the  stockade  gate, 
the  tears  rolling  down  her  wrinkled  cheeks, 
her  gray  hair  forgotten,  its  covering  gone ; 
she  stopped  to  question  the  guard  there. 

"  They  say  he  will  die,"  he  told  her,  his 
heart  full  of  a  great  pity. 

But  that  was  not  what  she  wished  to 
know. 

"  Marster,"  she  said,  "how  wuz  it? " 

"The  slate  fell  on  him  while  he  was 
eating  his  noon  lunch,  —  that  was  all." 

All ;  she  sighed  and  turned  away,  her 
last  poor  hope  of  heroism  gone. 


A  Scrap  of  College  Lore        139 

They  refused  her  admittance  at  the  hos- 
pital, but  allowed  her  to  crouch  at  the  door 
of  his  empty  cell,  just  under  the  old  col- 
lege text,  and  to  nurse  her  grief  near  some- 
thing that  had  been  his.  All  the  afternoon 
she  sat  there,  moaning  when  no  one  was 
near,  and  praying  always.  She  had  prayed 
for  so  many  years,  poor  old  black  mammy, 
and  received  for  her  faith  —  silence ;  si- 
lence, that  maker  of  infidels  and  blas- 
phemers. Yet  her  faith  held ;  she  was 
ignorant,  but  it  held,  held ;  let  the  wise 
and  the  favoured  look  to  it.  It  held  even 
while  the  white  face  of  him  who  was  the 
object  of  her  prayers  lay  back  upon  the 
coarse  prison  pillow,  waiting  for  death ; 
still  the  old  nurse's  faith  held. 

It  was  a  fair  face,  so  touchingly  child- 
like ;  the  old  smile  still  curved  the  delicate 
lips ;  the  smile  which  had  met  the  ills  and 
failures  of  life,  met  death  with  the  same 
boyish  defiance,  —  a  foil  to  rob  him  of  his 
terror. 

The  prison  physician,  together  with  the 


140       A  Scrap  of  College  Lore 

chaplain  and  the  warden,  had  endeavoured 
vainly  to  rouse  him  out  of  that  deadly  stu- 
por. There  was  no  response,  not  a  quiver 
of  the  eyelids  to  tell  that  he  heard  or  lived. 

"  Is  there  nothing,"  said  the  chaplain, 
"  that  will  arouse  him  ?  Nothing  that 
will  touch  him  ?  " 

"He  has  been  here  five  years,"  said 
the  warden,  "  and  I  have  never  known 
him  to  show  the  slightest  feeling,  except 
one  morning  when  one  of  the  men  at- 
tempted to  play  a  prank  upon  his  old 
black  nurse.  He  didn't  really  show  any 
feeling  then,  for  he  laughed  at  the  same 
time  that  he  cracked  the  fellow's  skull.  It 
was  hushed  up ;  nobody  held  any  ill- 
will  against  the  boy,  and  the  other  had 
made  himself  obnoxious  to  the  officials." 

The  physician,  his  hand  upon  the 
pulse  of  the  unconscious  convict,  turned 
suddenly  to  the  warden. 

"  Go  bring  the  old  nurse,"  he  com- 
manded. 

They  had  not  far  to  go,  and  she  came 


A  Scrap  of  College  Lore        141 

at  once,  tottering,  the  old  body  well-nigh 
spent.  The  surgeon  was  removing  the 
electric  battery  with  which  he  had  been 
vainly  endeavouring  to  recall  life  into  the 
benumbed  faculties,  when  the  old  negress 
entered.  They  moved  aside  to  make 
room  for  her,  for  she  was  growing  strangely 
feeble.  Is  it  instinct  that  teaches  those 
old  black  heroines  those  great,  grand 
strokes  upon  the  chords  of  the  human 
heart  ?  Is  it  instinct,  like  the  brutes  pos- 
sess ?  Who  dare  insult  Divinity  with  such 
a  charge  ? 

The  old  nurse  tottered  to  the  low  bunk, 
—  her  gray,  grizzled  hair  made  a  kind  of 
setting  for  the  dark  face.  Trouble  in 
every  wrinkle ;  grief,  such  as  tender 
mothers  know,  in  every  motion  of  the 
trembling  lips ;  but  love,  abiding  devo- 
tion, burning  in  the  fond,  faded  eyes  rest- 
ing upon  the  fragile  form  bound  in  linen, 
upon  which  the  blood-stains  showed  glar- 
ingly. She  bent  over  him,  no  tears  in  her 
eyes  now. 


"  Marse  Hal,"  she  said,  "  does  yer 
know  me,  honey  ?  How  is  yer,  little 
marster  ? " 

O  thou  great  electric  king  !  Out  upon 
thy  puny  power,  that  the  whisper  from  a 
slave's  lip  can  put  thee  to  such  shame  ! 
The  delicate  white  hand  moved  slowly 
across  the  yellow  sheet  until  it  found 
the  hand  of  the  old  nurse,  and,  clasping 
it,  rested  there.  The  prisoner  sighed 
softly. 

"Mam-Tildy?" 

"  Yes,  my  lam'." 

"  Take  me  home  ?  " 

It  was  the  voice,  the  pleading  prayer  of 
a  homesick  child.  The  nurse  was  the  only 
one  of  the  little  group  whose  eyes  were 
dry. 

"  Yes,  honey,"  she  replied,  "  Mam- 
Tildy  gwine  sen'  yer  home  soon ;  she 
done  promise  ole  Mis '." 

She  covered  his  small  hand  with  both 
her  own,  and  held  it  against  her  faithful 
old  black  breast,  and  sat  there,  with  eyes 


A  Scrap  of  College  Lore        143 

that  saw  not,  but  with  a  kind  of  peace 
upon  her  tired  face,  —  as  though  in- 
deed they  bad  been1  transported  back  to 
the  innocent  days  upon  the  old  planta- 
tion. 

"  Mam-Tildy  ? " 

"  Yes,  my  lam'." 

"  Sing ! " 

She  began  to  rock  to  and  fro  and  to 
croon  a  hymn ;  but  he  stopped  her  with  a 
movement  of  his  head. 

"  No,  no  ;  sing  your  old  — c  free  grace  ' 

—  you  used  to  sing  it  —  in   the   kitchen 

—  at  home" 

Tremblingly,  trustfully,  the  old  cracked 
voice  began,  and  went  bravely  on  to  the 
end : 

"  Free  grace  an'  dyen'  love, 
Free  grace  an'  dyen'  love, 
Ter  wash  me  white  as  snow." 

When  she  finished  he  lay  so  still  they 
thought  him  gone  indeed,  till  his  lips 
moved  faintly,  and  he  murmured  some- 


144       A.  Scrap  of  College  Lore 

thing  about  "  the  old  college  text,"  and 
"  something  "  which  he  said  "  the  chap- 
lain added  to  it."  Mam-Tildy's  old 
song  was  running  through  his  brain, 
too ;  confusing  him  absurdly  ;  for  he  was 
mumbling  something  about,  "  To  err 
is  human,  free  grace — divine,"  and  smil- 
ing, —  knowing  that  he  had  tangled 
song  and  text.  Mam-Tildy  tried  to  help 
him: 

"  It's  free  grace  an'  dyen'  love,  Marse 
Hal,"  said  she. 

"  I  know,"  he  whispered ;  and  sud- 
denly, with  strange  strength,  he  lifted 
himself  in  bed  and  clasped  his  arm  about 
the  old  mammy's  neck,  smiling  the  while, 
—  that  same  boyish  smile  she  knew  so 
well. 

The  surgeon  took  out  his  watch ;  one, 
two,  five  minutes  passed ;  he  placed  his 
finger  upon  the  delicate,  blue-veined  wrist 
lying  against  the  old  black  neck,  and 
motioned  a  guard  to  drop  the  window 
curtain. 


A  Scrap  of  College  Lore        145 

"  Mam-Tildy,"  he  said,  gently,  "  you 
may  go  now." 

"Yes,  marster,  I's  raidy.  Old  Tildy's 
work  am  done." 

And  unclasping  his  arm,  she  laid  the 
dead  boy  back  upon  his  pillow. 


George  Washington's 
"Bufday." 


«/^l  EORGE  WASHIN'TON  !    You 

V_T  George  Washin'ton,  you  !  Ef  you 
don'  come  'long  here  when  I  call  yer,  I'll 
take  a  bresh  broom  ter  yer,  sah,  dat  I 
will  !  " 

Aunt  June  stood  in  the  cabin  doorway 
calling,  shrilly  and  sharply,  to  a  boy  at 
that  moment  reluctantly  making  his  way 
to  the  cabin  from  the  direction  of  the 
"spring  branch"  that  skirted  the  field 
in  the  low  ground. 

"  Come  'long  here,  sah  !  Don'  you 
see  I's  waitin'  ?  " 

George  Washington  obeyed  reluctantly, 
146 


George  Washington's  "Bufday"  147 

however ;  for  it  was  the  season  of  the  year 
when  trout  were  biting.  The  small  rod 
and  bucket  that  he  carried  told,  silently, 
the  story  of  an  interrupted  minnow  excur- 
sion, preparatory  to  a  day's  fishing  in 
Duck  River. 

His  mother  wore  her  best  dress,  a 
bright  magenta  skirt  and  a  brown  worsted 
waist ;  a  bonnet  of  curious  shape  and  col- 
ours, and  a  pair  of  very  white,  home-knit 
gloves.  A  long,  brown  barege  veil  floated 
majestically  from  the  bows  and  blossoms 
of  her  bonnet. 

A  large  market-basket,  and  a  tin  bucket 
covered  with  a  clean  white  cloth,  stood  on 
the  doorstep ;  a  crazy  little  cart  with  a 
white  mule  nodding  between  the  shafts 
waited  at  the  gate.  In  lieu  of  leather 
reins  a  white  cotton  rope  passed  from  the 
bridle  bit  to  the  seat  upon  which  aunt 
June  was  preparing  to  mount. 

"  Is  yer  goin'  ter  town,  mammy  ?  "  said 
George  Washington,  with  a  rueful  glance 
in  the  direction  of  the  waiting  wagon. 


148  George  Washington's  "Bufday" 

His  black  face  expressed  better  than 
words  his  heart's  disappointment  at  the 
unexpected  disarranging  of  his  plans. 

"  Co'se  I's  gwine  ter  town  !  How's 
de  butter  gwine  git  dar  ef  I  ain'  fetch  it  ? 
Huccome  yer  reckin  hit's  gwine  walk  dis 
day,  stidder  waiting  fur  me  ter  fetch  it 
same's  udder  days  ?  You's  ter  stay  right 
in  here  wid  de  baby  till  I  git  back.  Does 
yer  hear  ?  Ef  de  baby  cries,  gib  her  de 
biscuit  on  de  she'f ;  and  don'  let  her  fall 
in  de  flan.  Does  yer  hear  me  ?  Why'n 
yer  answer  me,  George  Washin'ton  ?  " 

"  Yessum,"  said  the  boy,  "  I  hears 
yer;"  and  with  a  glance  at  the  little 
black  bundle  squatted  upon  the  floor, 
"  Wash,"  as  he  was  called  on  ordinary 
occasions,  began  to  whimper. 

Since  the  baby  was  born  he  had  been 
its  nurse ;  not  a  willing  one  always,  but 
always  a  faithful  one.  To-day,  for  the 
first  time,  the  rebellion  took  a  tearful 
turn. 

"  Shet  up,  I  tell  yer,  and  ten'  ter  dat 


George  Washington's  "Bufday"  149 

chile.  Po'  little  sister;  ain'  yer  shame 
yerse'f  ? " 

"  Won't  yer  fetch  me  a  stick  of  striped 
candy  ? "  sobbed  Wash,  seeking  to  make 
the  best  of  an  unpleasant  duty. 

"  I'll  fetch  a  stick  ter  stripe  yer  back  ef 
I  hear  anudder  word  fum  yer;  see  ef  I 
don't.  Shet  up,  I  tell  yer." 

If  the  rebellion  was  bitter,  it  was  short- 
lived. Before  the  crazy  little  wagon  had 
creaked  out  of  sight  Wash  was  squatted 
beside  his  sister,  industriously  stuffing  her 
with  the  big  biscuit  that  had  been  provided 
for  her  refreshment. 

Aunt  June,  sailing  into  the  county  town 
in  all  the  grandeur  of  her  own  turnout, 
soon  forgot  all  about  the  children  in  the 
cabin  at  home.  George  Washington  was 
to  be  relied  upon,  she  knew,  and  so  she 
gave  herself  no  further  uneasiness  on  the 
subject. 

Aunt  June  always  went  to  town  in  style. 
The  big  basket  went  along  for  style,  too, 
for  aunt  June  was  not  neglectful  of  her 


1 50  George  Washington's  "  Bufday  " 

reputation,  which  was  large  among  her 
acquaintance.  The  curious  old  bonnet 
bobbed  many  a  mild  "good  morning," 
as  the  old  mule  jogged  along  the  lanes  or 
the  white  turnpike.  As  she  neared  the 
town,  however,  the  bows  became  less  cor- 
dial and  a  trifle  — just  a  trifle  —  conde- 
scending. The  reason  was  soon  made 
known  to  the  white  mule. 

"  Dese  trifling  town  niggers  !  "  she  mut- 
tered. "  Dey-all  'ud  rather  lay  about  town 
in  rags,  and  go  ha'f-starved,  ez  ter  go  ter 
de  country,  whar  dey's  plenty  ter  eat  and 
drink,  too.  De  lazy  lot  ob  'em  !  Jest 
look  at  'em, — eight  erclock  in  de  mawnin', 
and  not  a  bressed  thing  ter  do,  —  de  day's 
work  done ! " 

Aunt  June  was  a  thrifty  soul,  as  was 
uncle  Jake,  her  "  ole  man."  There  were 
seven  pounds  of  fresh,  yellow  butter  in 
the  tin  pail  at  her  feet,  in  exchange  for 
which  she  would  bring  many  a  comfort  to 
the  cabin  that  she  and  Jake  had  bought 
with  their  own  savings ;  the  deed  was 


George  Washington's  "Bufday"  151 

safely  registered  in  the  clerk's  office  in 
town. 

Aunt  June  scowled,  grunted,  and  then 
sighed  for  the  less  fortunate  ones  of  her 
race ;  but,  as  she  said,  the  town  negro  had 
no  love  for  the  quiet  country  life  that 
had  been  her  prosperity. 

The  wagon  had  passed  through  the  last 
toll-gate  when  aunt  June  spied  an  acquain- 
tance among  some  workmen  who  were  re- 
pairing a  bridge  over  which  her  team  must 
pass.  She  pulled  up  the  mule  and  beck- 
oned the  man  to  her.  He  came  promptly, 
and  stood  with  his  hand  upon  the  mule's 
back  while  passing  the  compliments  of  the 
day. 

"  How  you  do,  Mis'  Pennin'ton  ? " 
said  he.  "  I  ain'  see  you  in  a  long  time." 

"  I's  toler'ble,"  was  the  reply.  "  Yous- 
all  well  ?  " 

"  Toler'ble.  Gwine  ter  town  dis  mawn- 
ing,  Mis'  Pennin'ton  ?  " 

"Yes,  sah.  I  hab  some  butter  ter 
fetch  in,  and  some  groc'ries  ter  fetch  out. 


152  George  Washington's  "Bufday" 

'Pears  lack  dey-alls  at  home  keeps  me 
toler'ble  busy  gwine  in  town  fur  groc'ries  ; 
but  Jake  and  de  chillen  am  hearty,  and  so 
am  I ;  so  we  ought  ter  be  thankful  fur 
dat,  I  tell  'em." 

"  Yessum,  dat  you  ought.  Plenty  hab 
got  de  health  and  de  appetite  what  ain't 
got  de  groc'ries,  I  tell  yer,  Mis'  Pennin'- 
ton.  Dat  dey  is." 

"  Dat  am  a  fac',"  said  aunt  June,  giv- 
ing the  big  basket  a  turn.  "  'Pears  lack 
you-all's  toler'ble  busy  ter-day." 

"  Yessum ;  we's  trying  ter  finish  dis 
here  bridge  ter-day,  bekase  we  don't  work 
ter-morrer.  Hit's  George  Washin'ton's 
bufday." 

Aunt  June  straightened  herself  with  a 
jerk: 

"What'  dat  you  say?  Hit's  whose 
bufday  ?  " 

Instantly  the  negro  assumed  the  gran- 
deur of  enlightener :  "  Hit  am  de  bufday 
ob  George  Washin'ton  ;  de  —  " 

"  What  dat   you  saying  ?  "    demanded 


George  Washington's  "Bufday"  153 

aunt  June,  uncertain  whether  to  take  the 
man  seriously  and  be  angry,  or  whether  to 
laugh  at  him  for  a  joker. 

The  man  grinned  and  patted  the  white 
mule's  back.  "  Yessum,  hit  am  George 
Washin'ton's  bufday.  He  wuz —  " 

"  Shet  up  !  You  reckin  I  don't  know 
what  he  wuz  ?  Yer  think  I  ain't  got  a 
scrop  o'  sense.  Tellin'  me  about  George 
Washin'ton's  bufday  ?  I  say  it !  " 

"  I  heerd  it  ober  in  town,"  said  the 
negro. 

"  Des  listen  at  dat,  will  somebody  ?  " 
cried  aunt  June.  "  What  town  got  ter 
do  wid  George  Washin'ton,  I'd  lack  ter 
know  ?  Talking  'bout  de  town  saying  hit 
'uz  George  Washin'ton's  bufday  !  " 

The  negro  broke  into  a  laugh.  "  Well," 
said  he,  "  it  am  de  sho'  fac'.  Dey 

M 

say  — 

"  Shet  yo'  mouf.  I  don'  want  hear 
none  yo'  big  talk.  I  wonder  if  yer  takes 
me  fur  a  fool,  or  a  what  ?  Letting  on  I 
don't  know  when's  George  Washin'ton's 


154  George  Washington's  "Bufday" 

bufday !  Hit  ain'  ter-morrer,  I  tell  yer. 
Ter-morrer  ain'  no  mo'  his  bufday  dan  it's 
mine.  I  reckin  I  ought  ter  know  when 
George  Washin'ton  wuz  bawn.  I  reckin 
I  wuz  dar,  at  de  bawning." 

The  negro  broke  into  a  laugh  so  loud 
that  his  fellow  workmen  looked  from  their 
work  to  smile  encouragingly,  and  wonder 
what  had  tickled  him  so.  He  stumbled 
back  to  them  bent  almost  double,  and 
holding  his  sides  with  both  hands,  laugh- 
ing until  the  tears  chased  each  other  down 
his  dark,  furrowed  cheeks. 

To  him  it  was  a  great  joke.  He  sup- 
posed aunt  June  had  merely  disputed  the 
question  in  order  to  prove  herself  not  lack- 
ing in  the  general  knowledge  of  the  day. 
But  when  she  stated,  "  as  a  clincher,"  he 
said  afterward,  that  she  "was  there,"  the 
joke  became  so  funny  that  he  could  not 
contain  himself. 

Aunt  June  gathered  up  her  lines  and 
clucked  to  the  white  mule.  "  Git  up 
dar,"  she  exclaimed.  "  You's  gitting  ez 


George  Washington's  "Bufday"  155 

lazy  ez  one  of  dese  here  town  niggers ; 
dat  you  is." 

The  mule  started  off  rather  briskly,  but 
not  too  briskly  to  let  aunt  June  hear  the 
parting  shot  from  the  bridge : 

"  Look  out,  folkses ;  look  out.  Dar 
goes  de  oPest  'oman  in  de  worl'.  Look 
at  her  well.  You  ain'  gwine  nebber  hab 
no  sech  chance  ter  see  sech  oPes'  'oman 
ag'in  in  dis  worl'.  De  ol'est  'oman  eber' 
was,  —  ef  de  troof  wuz  all  told." 

Aunt  June's  anger  had  cooled  some- 
what when  she  reached  the  store  at  which 
she  did  her  trading.  The  butter  was 
weighed,  and  she  began  selecting  supplies 
in  exchange  for  it.  If  she  was  slow  the 
merchant  was  patient,  for  aunt  June's 
butter  was  of  the  best,  and  there  was  al- 
ways a  demand  for  it.  There  were  forty 
cents  to  be  traded  out  when  the  town 
clock  in  the  court-house  steeple  struck 
twelve. 

"  Lor,  marster,"  she  declared,  "  I'm 
'bleeged  ter  g'long  back  home.  Hit  am 


156  George  Washington's  "Bufday" 

twelbe  erclock  and  de  chillen  ain't  got  a 
bite  ter  eat.  I'll  be  'bleeged  ter  come 
back  and  finish  ter-morrer." 

"You'll  have  to  get  through  to-day, 
aunt  June,"  said  the  merchant.  "  The 
store  will  be  closed  to-morrow ;  it  is 
George  Washington's  birthday." 

Aunt  June  dropped  the  hank  of  yellow 
yarn  she  had  been  fingering  for  some 
minutes.  "  Marster,"  she  exclaimed, 
"  who  tole  you  dat  ?  " 

"  Who  told  me  ?  Why,  I  don't  know. 
Everybody  knows  that;  it  is  in  all  the 
papers." 

The  black  face  wore  a  puzzled  expres- 
sion. "  Yer  don't  sesso." 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  the  merchant,  smil- 
ing, "  why  shouldn't  it  be  ?  We  all  love 
George  Washington,  aunt  June." 

"  Yes,  sah ;  yes,  sah  ;  sholy  ;  ter  —  be 
sho'." 

She  finished  her  trading  and  went  out 
to  arrange  her  packages  in  the  cart ;  she 
was  puzzled ;  she  didn't  at  all  understand 


George  Washington's  "Bufday"  157 

what  it  meant ;  yet  there  was  a  pleasant 
something  about  it,  too. 

"  Dat  chile  sholy  been  and  done  some- 
thing and  not  let  on  ter  we-alls,  his  pappy 
and  me,"  was  her  thought.  Then  in  her 
honest  old  heart  she  felt  a  twinge  of 
regret  for  her  anger  at  the  bridge ;  she 
wondered  if  the  old  negro  could  have 
been  right  after  all. 

"  But  naw,"  she  mused,  "  hit  couldn't 
V  been  in  de  winter  time  he  wuz  bawn. 
I  'members  hit  wuz  in  de  summer,  be- 
kase  Jake  wuz  threshing  wheat  dat  day. 
And  dey  wuz  cabbage  fur  dinner,  fur 
Liza  Ann  come  ober  and  cooked  it. 
Naw,  sah,  dey  all  am  sholy  wrong." 

At  that  moment  a  gentleman  to  whom 
the  woman  and  her  cart  were  familiar, 
passing  at  the  moment,  called  out  pleas- 
antly to  her : 

"  Hello,  aunt  June !  Must  be  going 
to  celebrate  George  Washington's  birth- 
day from  the  number  of  your  packages. 
Been  buying  yourself  rich  ?  " 


158  George  Washington's  "Bufday" 

There  it  was  again,  George  Washing- 
ton's birthday ;  she  heard  it  everywhere. 
The  very  banks  would  be  closed,  she 
heard  somebody  say ;  and  the  post-office 
would  be  open  but  an  hour  all  day. 
Clearly  it  was  George  Washington's 
birthday. 

To  be  perfectly  sure  about  it,  however, 
she  determined  to  step  around  to  "  Marse 
Tom's  office,"  and  ask  about  it.  Marse 
Tom  was  once  her  husband's  old  master, 
and  he  would  be  pretty  sure  to  tell  her 
the  truth. 

"  Marse  Tom,"  said  she,  thrusting  her 
head  in  a  moment  at  the  door,  "  what  am 
de  incasion  ob  all  de  incitement  in  de 
town  ter-morrer  ? " 

"  It  is  George  Washington's  birthday, 
aunt  June.  Come  in  and  get  warm," 
said  the  master,  without  looking  up  from 
the  paper  he  was  busily  preparing  for  the 
court  that  would  convene  the  next  week. 
But  aunt  June  was  gone ;  she  went 
straight  back  to  the  grocery. 


George  Washington's  "Bufday"  159 

"  Ef  dey's  all  detarmint  ter  hab  it  so,  I 
reckin  it  am  got  ter  be  so,"  she  declared ; 
and  she  bought  back  a  pound  of  the  butter 
she  had  sold,  two  pounds  of  cheese,  and 
a  dozen  sticks  of  striped  peppermint 
candy. 

"  Ef  ev'ybody  else  ain'  gwine  to  be- 
grudge de  chile  de  celebrating,  I  reckin 
sholy  his  own  mammy  ain'  gwine  do  dat," 
she  said.  "  I'se  gwine  straight  home  and 
kill  a  hin." 

She  felt  relieved  in  crossing  the  bridge 
to  find  the  workmen  gone. 

"  I  don'  want  hear  no  more  of  dat 
nigger's  mouf,"  said  she.  "  Lack  ez  not 
he'll  be  thinking  I  don'  know  de  bufday 
ob  my  own  chillen  atter  while." 

She  made  several  convenient  stops  on 
the  way  home,  however,  and  at  each  stop 
explained  why  she  was  imposing  so  upon 
the  mule. 

"  Dey's  a  lot  of  things  in  de  cart,  to 
be  sho,"  said  she.  "  But  hit  am  George 
Washin'ton's  bufday  ter-morrer." 


160  George  Washington's  "Bufday" 

And  for  the  life  of  her  she  couldn't 
help  saying  it  just  as  the  people  in  town 
had  said  it;  as  something  that  everybody 
ought  to  know.  Whether  these  knew  or 
not  she  was  not  able  to  divine,  since  the 
same  reply  met  her  at  each  repetition  of 
the  announcement :  "  Yessum  ;  it  am." 

She  was  planning  a  great  feast ;  she 
meant  to  make  a  cake  and  stuff  it  with 
raisins.  "  He  ain'  no  onery  nigger,  dat 
boy  ain't,"  said  she,  as  the  white  mule 
plodded  patiently  homeward. 

Little  Wash  couldn't  understand  his 
sudden  rise  to  greatness,  though  he  very 
cheerfully  washed  the  potatoes,  killed  and 
picked  the  hen,  and  was  told  that  he 
might  beat  the  whites  of  the  eggs  for  a 
cake  the  next  day. 

"  A  cake  fur  yo'  bufday  dinner,  son," 
his  mother  told  him. 

That  night  when  his  father  came  home 
aunt  June  asked  him  if  he  couldn't  get 
off  from  his  work  next  day  and  eat  dinner 
at  home. 


George  Washington's  "Bufday"  161 

"Hit  am  George  Washin'ton's  bufday," 
she  explained  again  in  the  town  tone.  "  I 
done  been  getting  de  chile  up  a  bit  of  nice 
victuals." 

Uncle  Jake  scratched  his  head  and 
pondered.  "  Ole  'oman,"  said  he,  after 
a  pause,  "  you's  mistookin',  honey,  'bout 
dat.  Ter-morrer  ain'  Wash's  bufday. 
Wash  'uz  bawned  in  de  summer  time. 
Don'  yer  reckerlict  de  threshing  ? " 

"Yes,  sah,  dat  I  does.  But  de  town 
folks  dey  all  say  ter-morrer  'uz  George 
Washin'ton's  bufday.  Dey  all  wouldn't 
hab  it  no  udder  way.  De  very  niggers 
on  de  pike  say  it  'uz  George  Washin'ton's 
bufday.  And  seeing  dey  wouldn't  hab  it 
no  udder  way,  I  jest  stepped  'round  ter 
Marse  Tom's  office  and  ax  him.  Kase  I 
know  ef  Marse  Tom  say  it  so,  it  am  so. 
So  I  put  my  head  in  de  do'  and  says  I : 
*  Marse  Tom,  what's  ter  do  ter-morrer  ? ' 
or  something  mighty  lack  dat.  And  says 
he :  '  Hit  am  George  Washin'ton's  buf- 
day.' Den  I  come  'long  and  kilt  a  hin  ; 


1 62  George  Washington's  "Bufday" 

kase  I  know  it  mus'  be  so  den  ;  aldo  I 
reckerlick  it  am  so." 

Uncle  Jake  tilted  his  chair  back  and 
broke  into  a  laugh.  "  Ole  'oman,"  said 
he,  "  you're  all  wrong  'bout  dat.  Dey 
wuz  talking  'bout  anuder  George  Wash- 
in'ton.  I  heered  all  'bout  dat  long  'go. 
Dey  wa'n'  meaning  we-alls'  po'  little 
Wash  here." 

Aunt  June's  eyes  flashed  for  a  minute ; 
only  a  minute,  however,  and  she  ducked 
her  head  to  laugh. 

"  I  done  kilt  a  hin,"  said  she,  "  and  it's 
got  ter  be  et,  naw,  sah;  George  Washin'- 
ton  am  gwine  hab  dat  bufday.  He  been 
mighty  handy  he'ping  'bout  de  baby  and 
all,  and  he  kin  hab  two  bufdays  dis  year 
well  ez  not.  Dey  ain'  no  sech  gre't  dif- 
fer'nce  'twix  the  twenty-seckin  o'  Feb'- 
iary  an'  de  twenty-ninth  of  July,  ez  I 
kin  see.  Seed  de  reesuns,  son,  fur  de 
cake ;  hit's  fur  yer  bufday  dinner  ter- 
morrer." 


A   Parable  of  Four   Talents 

m 

TEN  o'clock,  and  the  lamp  still 
burned  in  the  little  back  sitting- 
room  of  the  Laurel  Street  bakery.  That 
was  a  trifle  irregular ;  for,  unless  some- 
thing unusual  was  to  pay,  the  sitting- 
room  was  always  dark  at  ten  o'clock. 
Something  unusual  was  to  pay ;  first,  the 
hoarhound  cough  syrup  simmering  in 
Miss  Marietta's  bright  stew-pan  had  not 
reached  the  proper  thickness,  and  Miss 
Marietta  had  made  up  her  mind  to  sit  up 
with  it  "until  it  was  done,  if  it  took  till 
midnight."  For  old  Mrs.  Rodgers  was 
coughing  herself  to  death  while  the  syrup 
was  dilly-dallying. 

The  waiting  was   not  unpleasant ;    for 
163 


164      A  Parable  of  Four  Talents 

while  Miss  Marietta  was  not  given  to 
literature,  she  could  not  for  the  life  of  her 
make  a  light  roll  and  a  good  book  strike 
the  same  weight  in  the  scale  of  her  appre- 
ciation ;  she  kept  up  with  the  leading  mag- 
azines, too  :  the  Laurel  Street  letter-carrier 
could  have  testified  to  that.  "  Because," 
she  said,  "it  is  so  vulgar  to  fall  behind, 
and  so  easy  to  keep  up.  Then,  too,  one 
feels  much  more  respectable  with  a  good 
magazine  calling  around  every  month.  A 
regular  visitor  from  the  great  folks,  as  it 
were,  good  company  into  which  the  poor- 
est may  enter  for  a  very  small  considera- 
tion." So  she  took  the  magazines  and 
read  them,  and  laid  them  carefully  away 
on  the  book-shelves  where  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing and  Jean  Ingelow  smiled  at  her  winter 
evenings  in  the  friendliest,  most  feeling 
way.  Not  that  they  inspired  to  any  liter- 
ary ambition.  Miss  Marietta's  season  of 
ambition  was  ended  long  ago.  With  the 
life  at  the  St.  Cecilia  Orphanage  indeed, 
which  life  ended  just  five  and  twenty  years 


A  Parable  of  Four  Talents      165 

before  the  night  she  sat  in  the  back  sitting- 
room  of  the  Laurel  Street  bakery  concoct- 
ing a  cough  syrup  for  a  beggar  in  the  city 
hospital. 

She  had  cherished  some  very  gay  hopes 
then,  in  the  old  days  at  the  orphanage, — 
but  she  had  left  them  there,  in  the  conse- 
crated old  convent,  along  with  her  draw- 
ing-pencils, when  she  decided  to  learn 
the  baker's  trade.  She  had  burned  the 
bridges  behind  her  as  she  went,  —  and  the 
fires  from  the  bake  ovens  had  long  ago 
drawn  the  fire  from  her  ambition. 

But  she  had  kept  up  her  magazine 
reading.  That  kept  her  abreast  with  the 
world  in  general,  she  said,  and  it  kept  her 
in  sight,  at  least,  of  her  own  old  world  in 
particular.  A  very  strange  woman  was 
Miss  Marietta  Brown, —  a  very  strange, 
tender  gentlewoman,  despite  the  bakery 
and  the  bread  and  the  odour  of  spiced 
pies. 

It  was  due  to  the  magazine  reading, 
perhaps ;  possibly  it  was  her  nature,  in- 


1 66      A  Parable  of  Four  Talents 

herent.  Perhaps  it  was  the  result  of  the 
fifteen  years  at  St.  Cecilia.  It  was  due  to 
St.  Cecilia  that  she  ever  heard  of  a  maga- 
zine, certainly ;  and  it  was  due  to  the 
magazines  that  she  ever  heard  of  the  book 
lying  upon  her  knee,  —  whose  contents 
had  served  to  keep  her  awake,  while  she 
waited  the  thickening  of  the  beggar's 
broth. 

She  had  finished  the  book ;  "  scanned 
it,"  she  called  it.  She  would  read  it  for  a 
full  year  to  come. 

She  closed  the  lids  and  laid  the  volume 
upon  her  knee,  and  with  her  elbows  rest- 
ing upon  the  arms  of  her  easy  chair,  and 
her  sharp  little  chin  dropped  forward  upon 
her  thin  locked  fingers,  her  thoughts  went 
trooping  back,  down  the  shadowy  paths 
of  memory,  to  the  convent  with  its  solemn, 
gray  walls,  half  hidden  by  clinging  old  ivy. 
And  within,  the  clean  floors  and  stately 
galleries,  and  further  on,  up  the  broad  old 
stairway,  past  the  gloom  and  awe,  to  the 
old  sunshiny  garret,  with  its  low,  deep  win- 


A  Parable  of  Four  Talents      167 

dows  where  she  was  wont  to  sit  with  her 
former  friends  ("  friends  in  adversity " 
they  called  themselves  then),  Hannah, 
Kate,  and  Tom,  and  make  plans,  and 
dream  dreams  :  such  queer,  wild  dreams  ; 
dreams  that  had  not  been  entirely  barren 
of  fulfilment  for  them,  the  other  three,  but 
which,  for  Miss  Marietta,  had  been  truly 
dreams. 

The  others  had  caught  and  held  fast  all 
the  glory  and  glitter,  if  fame  meant  glory, 
for  each  was  famous.  She  alone  had 
fallen  upon  no  special  destiny. 

To  "  feed  the  hungry  "  had  been  the 
sum  total  of  her  achievements.  Tom, 
oh,  how  well  she  remembered  Tom,  and 
the  songs  he  sang  at  the  funerals  of  the 
dolls,  and  the  burials  of  the  dead  doves 
and  the  pet  rabbits ;  bits  of  opera  caught 
here  and  there,  snatches  from  the  mass 
learned  from  the  priests,  or  a  strain  or  two 
from  the  Ave  Maria  the  nuns  had  taught 
him. 

He  was  now  leading  tenor  in  a  famous 


1 68      A  Parable  of  Four  Talents 

opera  troupe ;  Tom,  who  had  sung  at  the 
funerals  of  the  dolls  and  rabbits !  Miss 
Marietta  had  kept  up  with  him  through 
the  press  and  the  magazines.  She  was 
not  surprised  at  the  boy's  advancement. 
His  destiny  had  been  foreordained  and 
apparent  since  that  day  (the  dear  old 
Mother  Columbia  had  told  them  about  it) 
when  a  weary,  heart-broken  stranger  had 
knocked  at  the  convent  door,  and  placed 
the  motherless  boy  in  the  Mother's  arms, 
saying  only  "In  the  name  of  the  blessed 
Mother ; "  and  then  crept  away  to  die. 
And  the  child  had  cried  and  cried,  until 
gentle  Sister  Eulalie  had  taken  him  in 
her  arms  and  coaxed  him  to  sleep  with 
the  Ave,  soft  and  low  and  tender. 

He  had  grown  up  there  among  the 
nuns,  fiery  of  temper  and  given  to  spells 
of  melancholy,  a  child  of  moods  and 
strange  fancies,  but  with  a  love  for  music 
so  deep,  and  a  soul  so  responsive,  that 
after  awhile  it  absorbed  all  other  feelings 
and  interests  until  he  was  adopted  by  a 


A  Parable  of  Four  Talents      169 

lady,  a  childless  woman,  the  wife  of  a 
musician.  Now  he  was  a  leading  tenor  in 
a  great  company.  Miss  Marietta  sighed. 
She  had  gone  to  hear  him  once,  when 
the  troupe  visited  Memphis,  the  city  in 
which  Miss  Marietta  and  the  bakery  lived. 
Oh,  yes,  the  bakery  lived ;  it  was  a  very 
live  establishment  indeed,  the  bakery  in 
Laurel  Street. 

Miss  Marietta  had  meant  to  invite  him 
home  with  her  to  a  tea-drinking  in  the 
sitting-room  when  the  play  was  over. 
But  when  he  danced  down  before  the 
footlights,  so  young-looking  and  fine  and 
handsome,  bowing  before  the  applause 
which  greeted  his  appearance,  it  had  been 
a  trifle  difficult  to  associate  the  famous 
"  Bernardi "  and  the  sentimental,  fitful 
Tom  of  the  old  days  in  her  mind  as  one 
and  the  same  person.  She  had  "  slapped 
his  cheek  "  many  a  time,  then  kissed  away 
the  sting  of  the  blow  before  he  had  time 
to  be  angry.  The  little  old  maid  had 
blushed  as  she  thought  of  it.  She  felt  so 


170      A  Parable  of  Four  Talents 

old,  so  worn  and  faded,  when  she  looked 
at  him,  so  young  and  fine,  that  she  de- 
cided not  to  make  herself  known. 

And  the  singer,  if  he  noticed  the  lit- 
tle old  figure  in  rusty  brown,  sobbing 
down  in  the  parquet,  had  doubtless  at- 
tributed her  tears  to  the  play,  the  ten- 
der, heart-breaking  music,  and  had  sung 
on.  It  was  his  business  to  make  people 
weep. 

But  above  the  music  with  its  wonderful 
thrills  and  pulsations,  Miss  Marietta  had 
heard  the  chatter  of  childish  voices.  The 
footlights  had  disappeared,  and  the  golden 
sunlight  was  streaming  in  the  wide  win- 
dows of  memory ;  the  doors  of  fancy 
flew  back  on  golden  hinges,  and  the  Tom 
of  the  past  pushed  aside  the  Bernardi  of 
the  present.  Instead  of  the  grand  opera 
in  the  great  theatre,  the  Ave  Maria  was 
ringing  through  the  St.  Cecilia  orchard 
where  the  dead  doves  were  buried  under 
the  long  dry  grasses.  She  had  wept,  fool- 
ish little  woman ;  she,  alas,  she  had  learned 


A  Parable  of  Four  Talents      171 

the  agony  of  bringing  the  "  Is  "  to  sit  in 
the  seat  of  the  "  Might  Have  Been." 

So  she  had  returned  alone  to  the  bakery 
on  Laurel  Street,  and  he  had  gone  on  to 
new  triumphs  and  nobler  successes. 

"  Each  to  his  own,"  she  had  said,  as  she 
turned  the  key  in  the  lock  after  letting 
herself  in  at  the  bakery  door. 

"  Each  to  his  own,"  she  had  said  again, 
when  she  had  turned  the  yeast  jars  below 
the  low  fire.  She  had  said  it  many  times 
since,  when  his  work  and  hers  had  re- 
curred to  her  mind.  And  she  said  it 
again,  "  Each  to  his  own,"  as  she  sat 
before  the  sitting-room  fire,  and,  turning 
the  leaves  of  the  book  she  had  been  read- 
ing, saw  through  its  gilded  pages  the 
green  groves  and  the  gray  walls  of  the  St. 
Cecilia  orphanage  come  up  to  meet  her. 

For  it  was  Kate's  book.  "  A  strong- 
minded  work,"  the  magazine  reviewer  had 
called  it.  Miss  Marietta  remembered  that 
Kate  had  always  been  "  strong-minded." 
Back  in  the  days  at  the  orphanage,  when 


172      A  Parable  of  Four  Talents 

only  a  child,  she  had  a  way  of  making  her 
plans,  and  living  strictly  up  to  them,  refus- 
ing any  offer,  however  advantageous,  that 
meant  a  conflict  with  these  plans.  More 
than  one  good  home  had  been  offered 
Kate  before  she  left  St.  Cecilia's,  but  she 
had  begged  so  hard  to  stay  that  she  had 
been  allowed  to  do  so,  until  one  morn- 
ing she  left  the  orphanage  the  adopted 
daughter  of  a  great  physician. 

The  book  lying  upon  Miss  Marietta's 
knee,  a  scientific  work  upon  the  treat- 
ment of  certain  surgical  operations,  was 
the  "  direct  result,"  so  the  little  baker 
woman  said,  of  that  adoption.  It  was 
very  like  Kate,  this  work  of  her  brain. 
It  was  the  woman  of  the  child  that  had 
been ;  the  result  of  years  of  planning  and 
dreaming  and  study ;  the  flower  of  the 
inherent  bud. 

At  the  orphanage  she  had  been  known 
as  Doctor  Kate ;  Miss  Marietta  remem- 
bered that  she  had  set  the  broken  leg  of  a 
pet  rabbit  once,  and  that  she  had  patched 


A  Parable  of  Four  Talents      173 

more  than  one  lacerated  arm,  plastered 
cuts  and  doctored  bruises  among  the 
children,  stanched  the  blood  and  taken  a 
stitch  in  a  ghastly  wound  from  which  stern 
old  Sister  Mildred  turned  away  sick  and 
faint  when  the  sufferers  were  carried  to 
the  infirmary. 

"  Send  for  Doctor  Kate." 

Miss  Marietta  laughed  as  she  thought 
of  little  Kate  Norton  with  her  bottles  and 
plasters  and  boxes,  and  glanced  again  at 
the  title-page  of  the  book  upon  her  knee. 

"  Catharine  Norton,  M.  D." 

It  had  a  very  stately,  solemn  look ;  a 
later  edition  of  the  prim  little  Kate  Nor- 
ton of  the  old  days  at  St.  Cecilia's. 

Surely  Doctor  Catherine  had  no  more 
attentive  reader  than  the  little  old  maid 
who  had  broken  brown  bread  into  a  bowl 
of  milk,  side  by  side  with  the  miniature 
surgeon  and  author  for  some  dozen  years 
at  the  dear  old  orphanage. 

She  was  still  breaking  bread,  poor  aim- 
less little  Miss  Marietta,  breaking  it  in  a 


174     A  Parable  of  Four  Talents 

quiet,  humble,  but  wholly  generous  way, 
for  the  hungry  mouths  of  the  city's  poor. 
But  Kate,  —  well,  she  had  not  lived  "  by 
bread  alone,"  at  all  events. 

"  Catherine  Norton,  M.  D." 

Neither  had  "  Bernardi,  the  star  of  the 
operatic  stage." 

And  before  the  little  bakery  a  square  of 
gaudily  painted  tin  told  the  Laurel  Street 
folk  that  "  M.  Brown's  Bakery  "  kept  a 
fresh  supply  of  "  Rolls,  Buns,  and  Loaves" 
constantly  on  hand. 

Music,  books,  and  bread.  Each  to  his 
own. 

She  thought  of  a  familiar  stanza,  become 
familiar  through  constant  repetition,  which 
she  had  found  in  one  of  her  magazines : 

"  You  may  grind  their  souls  in  the  self-same  mill, 

You  may  bind  them  brow  to  brow, 
But  the  poet  will  follow  the  rainbow  still, 
While  his  brother  will  follow  the  plow." 

Miss  Marietta  sighed  and  gave  the 
stew-pan  a  gentle  turn.  "  Yes,"  she  said, 


A  Parable  of  Four  Talents      175 

"  Tom  and  Kate  have  followed  the  rain- 
bow, and  have  found  the  bag  of  gold." 

"  Each  to  his  taste,"  she  told  herself, 
when  in  reality  it  was  each  to  his  need. 
Only,  the  others  would  not  sacrifice  talent 
to  necessity,  while  she  had  taken  the  first 
offer  made  her,  errand  girl  and  apprentice 
to  the  old  baker  woman  of  Laurel  Street. 
True,  she  had  only  meant  it  as  a  begin- 
ning, a  living,  until  her  brush  and  pencil 
should  sweep  away  the  obstacles  in  her 
way  to  independence.  Alas  for  it !  Be- 
ginnings are  mere  prophecies  of  the  end, 
and  false  beginnings  can  not  achieve  great 
ends. 

The  hand  of  humanity  is  too  weak,  for- 
sooth, to  roll  away  the  stone  from  the 
grave  of  mighty  aspirations  and  possible 
achievements  that  have  been  strangled  in 
the  grasp  of  unwise  beginnings.  She  had 
not  been  willing  to  trust  her  talent,  lean 
upon  it,  believe  in  it,  and,  live  or  die, 
to  cling  to  it.  She  did  not  know  that 
great  gifts  belong  to  great  souls,  and  will 


176      A  Parable  of  Four  Talents 

admit  of  no  rivalries,  no  false  or  faltering 
allegiance  in  their  possessor ;  they  demand 
all,  the  soul  entire. 

"  Catharine  Norton,  M.  D."  The 
words  had  a  strong,  honest  look.  Tom's 
name  on  the  handbills  had  looked  differ- 
ent. There  was  a  picture  of  himself ;  the 
pretty,  round  head,  with  its  short,  cling- 
ing curls ;  how  vain  he  had  been  of  those 
dainty  ringlets  in  the  old  orphanage  days! 

And  beneath  the  face,  the  beautiful, 
haunting  face  with  its  melancholy  mouth, 
and  eyes  that  seemed  to  be  gazing  into  a 
kind  of  dream  world,  the  "  promised 
land  "  of  the  poets,  was  his  name,  "  Ber- 
nardi,"  in  Tom's  own  handwriting. 

Miss  Marietta  smiled  as  she  recalled 
the  picture.  It  was  so  like  Tom,  that 
half  melancholy.  The  same  expression 
had  been  borne  upon  the  face  of  the  boy 
Tom,  and  he  had  been  rather  vain  of  it, 
in  the  days  of  obscure  boyhood.  It  made 
him  interesting,  he  said  in  the  days  of  ob- 
scurity. It  made  him  no  less  so  in  the 


A  Parable  of  Four  Talents      177 

days  of  his  success.  He  was  known  as 
the  "  Sad-eyed  singer,  Bernardi." 

At  the  orphan  asylum,  he  had  been 
simply  "  sentimental  Tom."  Still,  Miss 
Marietta  remembered  there  were  seasons 
of  gloom,  melancholy,  when  he  would 
steal  off  and  spend  hours  and  hours  alone 
down  under  the  apricot-tree  in  the  asylum 
orchard.  And  when  she  would  find  him 
there,  with  his  face  buried  in  the  long 
brown  orchard  grass,  and  try  to  comfort 
him,  he  would  cry  out : 

"  Etta,  oh,  Etta,  it  is  unbearable." 

She  would  crouch  down  in  the  grass 
beside  him,  and  sob  with  him,  poor  ten- 
der little  heart,  until  Hannah,  beautiful, 
brown-eyed  Hannah,  as  much  a  nun  by 
nature  as  Tom  was  an  artist,  Kate  a  sur- 
geon, and  she  a  baker,  came  with  a  touch 
of  her  gentle  hand,  the  sound  of  her 
sweet  voice  that  could  bring  the  light  back 
to  Tom's  face,  the  song  to  his  lips,  as 
nothing  else  could. 

She  would  kneel  down  beside  him  in 


178      A  Parable  of  Four  Talents 

the  grass  and  talk  about  the  "  blessed 
Mother  "  in  her  trustful,  devout  way,  un- 
til Tom's  melancholy  was  gone.  And 
after  awhile  they  would  go  home  to  the 
convent,  hand  in  hand,  through  the  or- 
chard grasses,  the  sunset  trailing  a  crim- 
son path  behind  them,  while  she,  little 
Marietta,  sat  under  the  shade  of  the  apri- 
cot-trees, trying  to  glean  comfort  from  the 
song  they  were  singing : 

"  Hear  the  heart's  lonely  sigh, 
Thine,  too,  hath  bled." 

Sitting  before  the  fire  in  the  back  room 
of  Laurel  Street  bakery,  the  old  feeling  of 
desolation  came  back,  the 

"  Or  a  pro  nobis  " 

trembled  upon  her  lips  as  it  did  that  far- 
away afternoon  when  she  knew  that  Tom 
loved  Hannah.  But  he  had  been  true  to 
his  talent,  his  ambition.  For  when  he 
began  to  love  he  fled.  Left  the  con- 
vent. Away  from  that  which  threatened 
his  ambition. 


Parable  of  Four  Talents      179 

But  Etta  had  fled  first :  fled  to  the 
baker  woman,  and  the  odour  of  spiced 
pies.  The  sticky  pastes,  the  jams  and 
jellies,  the  hot  ovens  and  the  white  flour, 
were  infinitely  more  bearable  than  Tom's 
love  for  Hannah.  So  she  had  proved 
false  to  her  gift ;  the  abandoned  brushes 
left  beside  the  garret  window,  the  unfin- 
ished head  of  a  saintly  Madonna,  testified 
the  shameful  desertion.  She  had  been 
unwilling  to  suffer  for  her  talent's  sake, 
while  he  had  turned  his  back  upon  joy, 
and  rushed  with  determined  soul  into  the 
very  arms  of  desolation,  in  order  to  ren- 
der the  altar  of  his  worship  free  of  other 
gods. 

And  Hannah,  devout,  wholly  uncon- 
scious of  the  anguish  she  had  caused, 
more  than  once  solemnly  shook  her  pretty 
head  and  refused  the  love  offered  her  in 
costly  homes  that  still  lacked  wealth  enough 
to  buy  the  little  maiden's  loyalty. 

"  A  nun  inherent,"  Miss  Marietta  had 
said  the  night  she  had  gone  back  to  St. 


180      A  Parable  of  Four  Talents 

Cecilia's  to  see  the  gloriously  golden 
tresses  sweeping  the  altar  where  Hannah 
knelt  in  bridal  robes  ready  to  become 
"  the  bride  of  the  Church." 

Sweet  Sister  Magdalene  in  serge  and 
cap  was  born  that  night,  and  where  the 
beautiful  girl  Hannah  went  in,  the  pale 
nun  came  forth. 

Forth  into  the  world  to  minister,  not 
dreaming  of  fame  and  not  caring  for  it. 
Yet  it  had  come  to  her  ;  a  reward  per- 
haps for  loyalty,  who  shall  say?  For 
when  the  loathsome  fever  plague  struck 
the  Southern  cities,  and  those  who  could 
flee  fled,  leaving  the  stricken  to  drag 
themselves  into  their  lonely  beds  and  die 
there,  a  beautiful  nun  with  the  name  of 
the  blessed  Mary  upon  her  lips,  and  the 
love  of  humanity  in  her  heart,  had  has- 
tened down  to  smooth  the  pillows,  cool 
the  lips  of  the  stricken,  and  gently  speed 
the  souls  of  the  dying. 

It  was  a  grand  thing  to  do,  a  grandly 
heroic  thing,  and  very  like  indeed  to  the 


A  Parable  of  Four  Talents      181 

little  orphan  Hannah  was  the  brave  deed 
of  the  Sister  Magdalene. 

All  the  world  heard  of  it.  The  world 
beyond  Laurel  Street  never  heard  of  the 
"  Brown  Bakery,"  though  it  had  been  a 
thriving  business  for  five  and  twenty 
years. 

All  the  world  heard  of  Hannah,  for 
wherever  the  demon  of  disease  planted 
his  banner,  there  she  followed  with  the 
rosary  and  crucifix.  She  was  a  nun  in- 
herent, and  had  been  true  to  her  heritage, 
as  had  Tom  and  Kate. 

Miss  Marietta  wondered  where  they 
were,  as  she  sat  there  dreaming  over 
Kate's  book.  She  did  not  wish  for  them, 
no,  no ;  she  had  no  wish  to  ever  meet 
the  old  asylum  mates  familiarly  again, 
unless  it  might  be  Hannah.  Hannah 
would  understand,  she  thought.  Tom 
would  feel  sorry ;  oh,  how  that  would 
hurt  her !  And  Kate  would  run  her  eyes 
along  the  shelves  and  counters  with  their 
brown  loaves  and  egg-polished  buns,  and 


1 82      A  Parable  of  Four  Talents 

say  nothing,  except  in  look.  That  look 
would  say,  "  You  always  were  wanting  in 
ambition,  Etta." 

The  very  loaves  themselves,  and  the 
greasy  doughnuts,  would  appeal  to  Tom. 
Miss  Etta  could  almost  hear  him  cry 
out,  in  the  old  heart-hurt  way  of  the  asy- 
lum days,  "  Oh,  Etta,  it  is  unbearable  !  " 
But  Hannah  would  see  deeper  than 
the  achievement  ;  Hannah  would  catch 
a  glimpse  of  the  endeavour  suddenly 
choked,  the  ambition  strangled.  And  she 
would  say  something  good,  and  strong, 
and  tender ;  that  would  be  very  like  Han- 
nah. Miss  Marietta  bottled  her  syrup, 
and  glanced  at  the  clock  on  the  mantel. 

"  Too  late  to  carry  it  over  to-night," 
she  said,  but  she  set  the  alarm  an  hour 
earlier  than  she  was  accustomed  to  rising, 
so  that  she  might  have  time  to  run  over 
and  carry  the  medicine  before  the  hour 
for  opening  her  shop. 

She  might  have  sent  her  errand  girl,  to 
be  sure,  but  she  had  been  an  errand  girl 


A  Parable  of  Four  Talents      183 

herself,  and  the  day  old  Victory  Marble, 
the  baker  mistress  under  whom  she 
served,  died  and  went  to  her  reward, 
and  she  had  stepped  into  her  shoes, 
Miss  Marietta  had  vowed  a  vow,  the  only 
one  perhaps  she  had  ever  made.  She 
would  make  no  pack-mules  of  heavy- 
hearted  errand  girls.  Such  was  the  vow 
made  in  memory  of  her  own  over- 
burdened youth. 

So  the  syrup  was  set  aside  for  her  own 
carrying,  and  Miss  Marietta  gave  the 
yeast  a  turn  before  the  smouldering  fire, 
saw  that  the  pie  boards  were  carefully 
covered,  and,  taking  her  lamp,  climbed 
the  stairs  to  her  bedroom  in  the  upper 
story. 

But  Doctor  Catharine's  book  had  set 
her  thoughts  awrangle ;  she  could  not 
sleep.  She  got  up  and  stood  for  a  moment 
at  the  window.  The  curtains  were  drawn 
back  and  the  shutters  wide  open,  for 
Miss  Marietta  was  fond  of  sleeping  where 
the  moonlight  could  find  her  pillow.  She 


184      A  Parable  of  Four  Talents 

had  learned  that  at  the  convent,  where  the 
windows  had  neither  shades  nor  shutters. 

The  bakery  window  looked  down  upon 
a  tangle  of  rustling  brown  hop-vines,  and 
looked  up  at  the  star-spangled  heavens. 
She,  too,  had  looked  upon  hops,  fed  upon 
husks.  They,  Tom,  Hannah,  and  Kate, 
had  studied  the  stars. 

It  was  the  old,  old  story  of  fortune's 
ups  and  downs,  she  thought.  Yet  her 
education  had  not  justified  such  meagre 
results,  although  it  had  been  unfinished 
when  she  went  to  old  Victory  Marble.  It 
was  strange,  the  destinies  that  had  fol- 
lowed the  four  orphans  of  St,  Cecilia's. 
But,  indeed,  it  was  a  problem  with  a  very 
plain  meaning.  They  had  been  true, 
those  other  three,  to  their  talent,  their 
genius ;  had  believed  in,  and  relied  upon 
it.  And  genius  had  rewarded  faith.  Miss 
Marietta  tiptoed  to  watch  a  light  burning 
in  an  upper  story  of  a  tall  building  far- 
ther down  the  street.  The  building  was 
the  hospital  where  ebbed  and  flowed  the 


A  Parable  of  Four  Talents      185 

pauper  life  of  this  great  city.  Miss  Mari- 
etta knew  what  the  light  in  the  upper 
story  meant. 

"  Little  Joe  is  worse,"  she  said.  "  I 
must  send  him  a  nice  roll  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

Bread,  bread,  bread.  The  old  familiar 
text  came  to  her :  "  Man  shall  not  live 
by  bread  alone." 

She  turned  away  from  the  window  and 
the  staring  white  moonlight,  and  crept 
back  to  bed. 

The  basket  that  went  to  hospital  next 
morning  contained  a  book  of  rare  engrav- 
ings hidden  away  under  the  snowy  rolls. 

"Joe  has  a  taste  for  drawings,"  Miss 
Marietta  said  aloud  when  she  placed  it 
there  ;  in  her  heart  she  said  :  "  c  Man  shall 
not  live  by  bread  alone.' ' 

There  was  silence  in  the  city,  the  silence 
of  sorrow  and  desertion.  The  mild  win- 
ter, for  which  the  poor  had  kissed  their 
crosses  and  thanked  the  blessed  Mother, 
had  proved  traitor,  and  had  brought  in  its 


1 86      A  Parable  of  Four  Talents 

wake  that  disease  and  death  whose  germ 
must  needs  have  frost  and  ice  to  check  its 
deadliness. 

The  brown  earth  cracked  and  crum- 
bled ;  and  down  in  the  lower  levels  out- 
side the  city's  limits,  the  sluggish  pools 
were  covered  with  a  greenish  scum, 
through  which  the  hot  breezes  struck, 
only  to  flaunt  forth  from  the  loathsome 
stagnancy,  the  leprous  breath  of  fever. 

The  yellow  scourge  spread  like  a  va- 
pour through  the  parched  city,  causing  a 
wail  among  the  huddled  masses  of  hu- 
manity. And  as  the  tell-tale  signal  rose 
here  and  there,  among  the  house  tops, 
floating  its  demoniac  greeting  to  some 
other  signal,  the  frightened  people  gath- 
ered their  children  in  their  arms,  or  left 
them  to  perish,  and  fled ;  fled  anywhere 
and  everywhere,  their  only  thought  being 
to  escape  the  awful  fever-death. 

Down  in  Laurel  Street  the  little  baker 
woman  toiled  on  over  the  hot  ovens ;  the 
fires  were  not  extinguished  day  or  night, 


A  Parable  of  Four  Talents       187 

the  ovens  were  never  cool ;  the  sieve  never 
rested,  and  the  tidy  floors  wore  still  the 
dusty  prints  of  feet  along  with  the  white 
dust  of  flour.  Yet  the  shelves  were 
empty,  and  the  cases  held  neither  bun 
nor  loaf.  And  for  all  the  hurried  and 
unnecessary  labour,  not  a  penny  had 
dropped  into  the  baker  woman's  till,  four 
full  weeks. 

She  had  not  thought  of  that;  at  such 
times  as  these  men  do  not  stop  to  cast  up 
gain  or  loss.  When  death  is  on  his  steps, 
Dives  remembers  Lazarus. 

Miss  Marietta  toiled  on.  Bread ! 
bread !  bread !  it  seemed  as  if  the  world 
was  starving.  Every  day  the  bakery  sent 
the  brown  loaves  out  to  find  the  poor  who 
could  not  fly,  and  must  not  perish. 

And  while  she  baked  they  blessed  her, 
and  kissed  their  crosses,  praying  the  Vir- 
gin's care  upon  her. 

But  there  came  a  day  when  the  loaves 
were  missing :  down  in  Laurel  Street 
another  door  was  closed.  The  store  was 


1 88      A  Parable  of  Four  Talents 

strangely  desolate  looking,  stripped  of  its 
wheaten  adornment.  The  ovens  in  the 
bake-room  were  cold,  the  flour  waited  un- 
kneaded  in  the  tray  where  she  had  placed 
it  when  the  message  came.  The  blinds 
were  closed  and  the  curtain  drawn  fast. 
The  errand  girl  had  opened  them  at 
daybreak  to  put  out  the  fever-flag,  and 
then  closed  them  again,  mutely  wonder- 
ing who  would  do  the  same  for  her  the 
next  morn,  or  the  next,  when  she  should 
lie  in  Miss  Marietta's  place,  waiting  for 
death. 

It  had  come  so  sharp  and  sudden,  the 
message,  and  Miss  Marietta  had  received 
it  so  calmly ;  she  had  been  baking^  too 
busy  to  think  of  the  scourge,  and  late  in 
the  afternoon  had  gone  to  the  door  to 
fetch  a  tray  of  warm  loaves  to  a  volunteer 
hospital  nurse  waiting  there  for  them. 

"  No  abatement  ?  "  the  girl  had  heard 
her  ask  the  man. 

"  No,  ma'm,  it  grows  worse  and  worse. 
Two  of  our  doctors  died  last  night,  and  four 


A  Parable  of  Four  Talents      189 

sisters  of  charity  this  morning ;  and  there 
is  not  a  soul  to  say  mass  for  the  dead 
nuns ;  for  the  priest  died  just  ten  minutes 
after." 

Miss  Marietta  did  not  speak  until  the 
big  "  band  wagon,"  that  was  rattling  by, 
had  passed  on.  The  gaudy  festival  car- 
riage bore  in  gilded  letters  upon  its  crim- 
son sides,  "  To  the  races."  Within,  it 
bore  the  dead ;  a  score  of  rude  pine 
boxes ;  a  full  score.  Death  on  the  race 
track  had  distanced  all  rivals.  When  the 
wagon  had  passed  by,  Miss  Marietta 
spoke : 

"  Where  are  the  bodies  of  the  nuns  and 
the  priest  ? " 

The  man  pointed  to  a  coal  cart  that  was 
following  in  the  direction  the  band  wagon 
had  gone. 

"  That  was  all  we  could  get,  ma'm,"  he 
said.  "  And  that  is  driven  by  a  young 
society  chap,  ma'm.  One  of  the  nuns 
nursed  him  through  the  fever,  and  the 
priest  buried  his  mother  three  days  ago. 


190      A  Parable  of  Four  Talents 

It  takes  a  plague  like  this,  ma'm,  to  break 
a  path  to  men's  hearts." 

The  nurse  steadied  the  tray  upon  his 
head,  and  said,  "  Good  evening,"  but  he 
turned  back  a  moment  to  say : 

"  Little  Joe  died  last  night."  Miss 
Marietta  gasped  for  breath.  "  Yes'm,  he 
had  a  lot  of  pictures,  and  a  book  he  begged 
to  have  put  in  the  coffin  with  him ;  he  was 
certain  he  would  die  from  the  first.  But 
bless  you,  the  box  they  brought  for  him 
was  so  narrow  we  had  to  lay  him  on  his 
side.  I  did  slip  in  a  Madonna's  face ; 
slipped  it  in  the  child's  jacket.  I  thought 
it  looked  a  trifle  like  my  mother  when  I 
picked  it  up.  She  died  with  the  fever 
nearly  a  month  back." 

The  nurse  went  on  to  his  work,  and 
Miss  Marietta  went  into  the  shop.  She 
went  back  to  the  tray  in  the  kitchen,  and 
sifted  the  flour  for  the  next  baking.  Then 
she  laid  the  sieve  aside  and  called  to  the 
errand  girl. 

"  Order   the  fires  put  out,"   she  said, 


A  Parable  of  Four  Talents      191 

"and  pay  off  the  hands."  Then  she 
crept  up-stairs  and  into  her  bed.  The 
errand  girl  bent  over  her. 

"  Hannah !  Oh,  if  Hannah  would 
come ! " 

In  an  hour  her  eyes  were  sunk  and 
staring,  and  her  skin  like  yellow  parch- 
ment. The  furrowed  hands  clutched  at 
the  white  covers  of  the  bed  whenever  the 
terrible  agony  struck  her.  Then,  when 
the  pain  had  passed  for  a  moment,  she 
would  drop  among  the  pillows  and  moan: 

"  Hannah,  oh,  Hannah  !  " 

The  errand  girl  thought  the  angels  must 
have  told  her,  and  crossed  herself  when 
the  door  opened,  and  the  tall,  strong  fig- 
ure of  a  nun  entered,  and  a  voice  whose 
very  tone  was  music  said : 

"  Etta  !  Etta  !  Hannah  has  come." 

The  nun  threw  off  her  veil  and  bent 
over  the  sunken  yellow  face  on  the  pillow. 

Death  stood  back  a  moment  as  the 
dying  woman's  eye  caught  the  face  bent 
over  her ;  and  then  a  cry  went  up  from 


192      A  Parable  of  Four  Talents 

that  poor  place,  a  cry  of  such  joy,  such 
infinite  rapture  as  the  old  shop  had  never 
heard. 

"  Hannah  !  oh,  Hannah  !  " 

The  strong  arms  and  the  weak  ones  met 
in  one  fond  embrace.  Sisters,  indeed,  in 
charity.  That  charity  which  is  greater 
than  hope,  and  mightier  than  faith.  But 
death  is  mightier  than  either,  and  death 
was  there.  The  clock  upon  the  mantel  in 
the  sitting-room  below  had  ceased  to  run, 
for  no  one  thought  to  wind  it ;  but  from  a 
convent  in  the  next  street  the  angelus 
sounded  when  Miss  Marietta  opened  her 
eyes. 

"  Oh,  Sister,  the  ring-doves  are  all  dead, 
and  the  rabbits  are  too  old  to  play,  and  I 
have  buried  my  goldfinch  under  the  apri- 
cot-tree down  in  the  orchard." 

The  nun  drew  the  slight  figure  into  her 
arms,  and  rested  her  soft  chin  on  the  yel- 
low temple.  She,  too,  was  travelling  again 
the  old  paths  through  the  convent  gar- 
den. The  path  down  which  four  orphans 


A  Parable  of  Four  Talents      193 

had   travelled  into   such  widely  different 
destinies. 

There  were  the  rabbits,  and  the  dead 
ring-doves,  and  sweet  Sister  Xavier  trying 
to  comfort  the  troubled  hearts  of  the  tiny 
mourners.  And  then  they  were  carrying 
Etta's  pretty  goldfinch  to  bury  it.  It  was 
Etta  herself  who  was  drawing  the  nun  back 
through  the  old  paths  of  childhood.  It 
was  Etta  who  threw  off  the  circling  arms 
and  sobbed : 

"  Sing,  Tom  !  sing  the  Ave." 
The  nun  stood  up  and  folded  her  hands 
upon  her  bosom. 

"  Ave  sanctissima ! 

We  lift  our  souls  to  thee." 

The  hymn  rose  and  fell,  soft  and  sweet 
and  trustful.  And  when  the  last  note 
died  away  in  her  beautiful  throat,  she 
beckoned  to  the  errand  girl,  telling  her 
beads  in  the  corner. 

"  Can  you  make  out  to  shroud  her 
while  I  try  to  find  a  priest  ? " 


194     A  Parable  of  Four  Talents 

"Yes,  Sister." 

For  the  plow  had  reached  the  end  of 
the  furrow ;  the  rainbow  still  spanned  the 
heavens. 

The  rainbow  still  spanned  the  heavens; 
and  they,  those  other  three,  still  followed 
in  the  seven-coloured  glow,  until  one  day 
in  the  summer  one  foot  slipped  the  radiant 
path,  and  Hannah  went  out  with  the  mul- 
titudes whose  cause  had  been  her  calling. 

In  the  nun's  graveyard,  under  the 
shadow  of  the  convent  walls,  sleeps  the 
beautiful  dust  of  the  Sister  Magdalene. 
The  simple  headstone  tells  only  that  she 
waits  there  the  final  resurrection  of  the 
saints.  But  over  to  the  westward,  where 
the  city  is  crossed  by  the  great  passways, 
one  leading  to  the  city,  the  others  to  the 
river,  just  where  the  priests  seeking  the 
Cathedral  in  the  city's  heart,  the  labourer 
hurrying  down  to  the  flat,  or  to  the  cotton 
fields  beyond  the  river,  can  see  and  re- 
member, a  statue,  an  angel,  in  bronze, 
with  wings  outspread,  as  if  hastening  on 


A  Parable  of  Four  Talents      195 

its  mission  of  love,  commemorates  the 
work  of  Hannah. 

The  marble  pedestal  says,  "  Sister  Mag- 
dalene." So  her  work  ended  with  her 
life.  She  had  been  true  to  her  calling, 
her  talent,  which  is  sometimes  called  by 
the  broader  name  of  genius,  but  which, 
after  all,  means  only  that  special  One 
Thing,  which  is  bestowed  on  each  and  all, 
and  which,  seized  and  nurtured  and  be- 
lieved in,  brings  its  own  reward ;  and 
which,  however  humble,  if  cast  aside  for 
an  alien,  or  buried  in  a  napkin,  throws 
back  on  its  repudiator  tears,  desolation, 
regret. 

In  an  old  churchyard,  just  without  the 
city  of  Florence,  a  great  unglossed  pillar, 
a  pillar  of  stones,  rises  upon  the  green 
banks  of  the  Arno.  It  records  no  name, 
inasmuch  as  it  arose  there  stone  by  stone, 
brought  thither  by  the  lovers  of  "  Ber- 
nardi."  The  days  are  never  too  hot, 
the  wind  never  strikes  too  chill  for  the 
pilgrim  visiting  the  tomb  to  carry  his 


196      A  Parable  of  Four  Talents 

stone,  which  helps  to  build  the  monument 
to  the  sad-eyed  singer  whose  voice  once 
stirred  all  Florence,  and  whose  memory 
still  lives  through  all  Europe.  He  had  not 
been  happy.  What  of  that  ?  Ambition 
and  happiness  are  unacquainted.  He  had 
been  true ;  true  to  his  talent,  his  genius. 

Happiness  is  not  mentioned  in  the  be- 
stowal of  talents.  That  comes  with  the 
end,  the  reckoning ;  he  had  done  his  best, 
thrown  aside  every  weight  in  making  his 
race  for  the  rainbow.  He  had  found  the 
bag  of  gold  in  the  unglossed  monument 
where  the  chase  ended  on  the  green  banks 
of  the  Arno. 

Far  away  in  the  North,  a  woman,  strong 
bodied  and  with  lips  that  told  of  purpose, 
a  woman  who  had  flung  the  world  her 
scorn  of  its  opinions,  folded  the  paper  she 
had  been  reading  while  she  sipped  her 
coffee. 

She  had  read  news  in  the  morning  jour- 
nal, —  news  that  would  have  affected  most 
women ;  but  there  was  no  tremor  of  the 


A  Parable  of  Four  Talents      197 

firm  lips,  and  the  hand  that  removed  the 
gold-bowed  glasses  from  the  cold  eyes 
were  the  same  steady  hands  of  the  sur- 
geon, Catharine  Norton,  M.  D. 

"  So  he  is  dead,"  she  said.  "  Well,  he 
succeeded ;  that  is  worth  dying  for." 

She  returned  to  her  books  and  her  lab- 
oratory ;  she  had  her  work,  it  absorbed 
her,  demanded  every  feeling  of  her  soul. 
She  had  no  sentiment  to  waste  upon  dead 
singers.  Yet  she  approved  him ;  he  had 
striven,  clung  to  his  talent,  and  it  had 
repaid  him. 

And  so  indeed  did  hers ;  for  when  she 
died  her  bones  were  sent  to  rest  in  marble, 
and  her  life  was  gathered  on  gilded  pages 
which  the  world  still  reads  and  applauds. 

She  had  lived  her  life  solitary  and  alone, 
but  it  was  her  life.  She  had  been  created 
for  that;  she  recognised  it,  accepted  it, 
and  had  done  her  best  with  it.  Her 
talent  had  doubled  itself.  She  had  fed 
no  poor,  comforted  and  sustained  none ; 
that  was  not  her  work,  and  "  no  man  can 


198      A  Parable  of  Four  Talents 

serve  two  masters."  She  had  attended  to 
her  own  talent,  seeing  that  it  accomplished 
that  for  which  it  was  given. 

And  so  indeed  had  he,  Bernardi,  and 
she,  the  nun  Hannah.  And  for  her,  the 
little  human-hearted  baker  woman,  she 
had  toiled  and  given  and  wept ;  fed  the 
hungry  and  clothed  the  naked.  But, 
plowing  in  other  men's  fields,  she  had 
lost  the  world  an  artist. 


Sweet  'Laases 


IT  was  twilight  in  Mullein  Town. 
Down  the  dusty  street,  of  which 
Mullein  Town  boasted  but  one,  sounded 
the  uneven,  loitering  step  of  the  labourers 
going  home  from  their  work  over  in  the 
city  "  on  the  other  side  the  creek." 

It  was  only  a  village,  a  little  settlement 
of  negroes,  that  was  interesting,  if  not 
large  ;  select,  too,  and  original,  bound  by 
no  strict  obedience  to  the  laws  that  gov- 
erned their  more  pretentious  friends  over 
in  the  city  "  on  the  other  side  the  creek." 

The  other  side  the  creek  meant  much 
to  the  denizens  of  Mullein  Town.  They 
cautioned  their  children  against  "  soshatin' 
with  any  sech  triflin'  niggers  as  dey-all  on 
tudder  side  de  creek." 
199 


2OO  Sweet  'Laases 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Mullein  Town 
tribes  were  "  a  passel  o'  cunjure  niggers 
what  don't  know  butter  fum  beeswax. 
Dey  ain't  nothin'  fitten  ter  talk  'bout  in 
dat  Mullein  Town.  Better  keep  'way 
fum  dar  ef  you  don't  want  a  spell  flung 
ober  you  ;  dat  you  had.  Ef  you  don't 
want  ter  wake  up  some  day  wid  all  de  ha'r 
gone  out  yer  haid,  or  else  yer  feet  done 
furgit  how  ter  walk,  you  better  stay  on 
dis  side  de  creek." 

So  was  there  great  enmity  between  the 
two  sections.  Mullein  Town  boasted  no 
house  of  worship,  and  although  she  was  in 
consequence  forced  to  cross  the  creek  and 
worship  with  the  "  other  side,"  even  then 
the  enmity  was  not  forgotten. 

She  was  welcome  to  come  over  and  sit 
under  the  sanctuary,  to  catch  such  crumbs 
of  comfort  as  might  fall  from  the  tables  of 
her  pretentious  neighbours,  and  she  might 
drop  her  mite  into  the  same  basket  along 
with  theirs ;  they  would  send  it  along  in 
the  same  message  to  the  same  suffering 


Sweet  'Laases  201 

heathen ;  she  might  shout  and  sing  and 
shake  hands  with  the  saints  from  the 
"  other  side  "  on  religious  occasions,  but  the 
line  must  be  drawn  somewhere,  and  it  was 
drawn  at  church  festivals,  suppers,  con- 
certs, and  the  like.  She  must  keep  on 
her  own  side  the  creek  when  it  came  to 
carrying  off  the  honours  at  these  entertain- 
ments. Let  her  presume  to  carry  off  a 
prize,  and  see  what  would  happen. 

Mullein  Town  knew  what  would  hap- 
pen ;  for  had  not  yellow  'Liza,  the  belle 
of  the  "  'cross  the  creek  "  town,  carried  off 
the  last  three  cakes  at  the  last  three  walk- 
ings ?  And  she  would  do  it  again ;  they 
could  depend  on  'Liza  to  uphold  their 
pride  and  to  outdo  the  "  stuck-up  niggers 
on  de  udder  side  de  creek." 

'Liza  was  busy  packing  the  fresh,  clean 
clothes  into  the  basket ;  she  was  in  a  great 
hurry,  —  as  great  a  hurry  as  a  Mullein 
Town  negro  could  get  in.  She  had  to 
carry  those  clothes  home  across  the  creek; 
for  'Liza  did  such  washing  as  the  fine 


2O2  Sweet  'Laases 

folks  on  the  other  side  were  fain  to  recog- 
nise and  glad  to  get. 

She  was  singing  as  she  worked ;  one  of 
those  dreamy,  drawly,  half-hymn,  half- 
jubilee  melodies,  that  nobody  composed 
and  nobody  but  a  Mullein  Town  negro, 
a  woman  at  that,  knows  how  to  sing : 

"  Oh,  mo'ner,  le's  go  home. 

Bless  God  ! 
He's  a-wait'n  ober  yander  fur  ter  see  you  come, 

Bless  God  !     Bless  God  ! 
Oh,  rise  up,  sinner,  an'  shake  off  yer  sin 
Ef  yer  s'pec'  de  anguls  ter  let  you  in, 
Bless  God ! 

"  Bless  God  !  Bless  God  ! 
Salvation's  free  ter  you  an'  me, 
Bless  God  1  Salvation's  free." 

She  sang  in  a  low,  crooning  way  that 
was  not  unmusical  despite  the  uneven 
measure  of  the  words,  which  she  twisted 
into  a  sing-song  melody  of  her  own,  add- 
ing a  note  where  the  words  were  too 
many,  and  dropping  into  a  long,  soughing, 


Sweet  'Laases  203 

moan-like  sound  that  effectually  covered 
up  any  lack  where  words  were  wanting. 
For  metre  is  a  small  thing  to  the  negro  ; 
he  thinks  of  the  music,  not  of  the  metre. 
The  more  wise  he. 

Through  the  open  door  of  her  cabin 
came  the  prattle  of  children  playing  about 
the  streets,  varied  now  and  then  with  the 
loud  laugh,  or  the  friendly  "  How-you- 
do's  "  of  villagers  passing  to  or  from  their 
homes,  to  the  workmen  coming  out  from 
their  work  over  in  the  town  across  the 
creek. 

Over  all  sounded  the  almost  ceaseless 
creaking  of  the  well-sweep ;  for  all  Mul- 
lein Town  watered  at  the  public  well. 
Moreover,  it  was  supper-time  in  Mullein 
Town,  and  it  was  a  natural  thing  that  the 
pails  should  stand  empty  about  the  curb- 
ing while  Mullein  Town  exchanged  the 
gossip  of  the  day  in  the  dusky,  dusty  twi- 
light. 

They  were  talking  about  the  cake-walk- 
ing that  was  to  be  that  very  night  at  the 


204  Sweet  'Laases 

church  across  the  creek.  Every  word 
came  as  distinct  and  as  sure  to  the  ear 
of  the  young  woman  packing  her  laun- 
dry basket  as  though  the  talk  had  been 
designed  solely  for  her  ears. 

"  Jes'  wait  till  'Liza  tackles  'em,  I  tell 
yer.  Eh-eh  ?  Dey  ain't  seen  dat  gal 
strack  a  plank  yit.  Dey  all  better  not  go 
ter  brayin'  till  dey's  cl'ar  o'  de  stable,  / 
tell  you.  'Liza'll  fetch  'em." 

It  was  a  man's  voice  that  replied : 

"  Dey  say  dey  got  a  new  gal  ober  dar 
what  dey  fotch  fum  somers  'way  off.  Dey 
say  she  kin  sho'  walk.  Dey  say  she  strack 
a  walk  once  ober  dar  whar  she  come  fum, 
dat  dey  ain'  nebber  stop  talkin'  'bout  yit. 
Dey  say  she  kin  beat  our  'Liza  all  ter 
pieces ;  dat's  what  de  town  niggers  say." 

"  Yes,  an*  dey  say  dat  de  las'  time.  Dey 
say  dey  got  a  nigger  what  skeer  a  jack  rab- 
bit hitse'f  off'n  de  track.  But  it  ain'  skeer 
'Liza  Ann,  ez  nobody  ebber  heeard  tell 
on.  'Liza  walked  home  wid  de  angul  cake 
on  her  haid  jus'  de  same ;  onconsarned  as 


Sweet  'Laases  205 

if  hit  'uz  a  basket  o'  clean  clothes  she  'uz 
fetchin'  home  fum  washin'.  Eh-eh  ?  Fotch 
anudder  jack  rabbit  fur  'Liza  ter  beat,  is 
dey  ?  All  right,  'Liza'll  beat  him  ;  we-all 
ain't  skeered  'bout  'Liza." 

Their  praise  was  pleasant.  'Liza  smiled 
as  she  folded  a  pair  of  dainty  fluted  pillow- 
cases and  laid  them  upon  the  white  heap 
in  the  over-full  basket.  Get  the  cake  ? 
She  hadn't  a  doubt  of  it ;  no  more  than 
her  friends  and  neighbours  outside  at  the 
well. 

She  meant  to  hurry  home  and  get  her 
cabin  in  order  before  going  to  the  "  walk- 
ing," for  she  would  be  pretty  sure  to  have 
company  after  the  entertainment ;  she 
always  had  after  similar  entertainments. 
Tall  Rufus,  the  Mullein  Town  beau,  who 
had  a  barber's  shop  "  across  the  creek," 
always  walked  home  with  her  after  a  cake- 
walking,  and  they  always  had  a  cosy  hour 
together,  enjoying  the  spoils  that  'Liza 
Ann  brought  home  from  the  battle. 

When  'Liza  stepped  outside  with  the 


206  Sweet  'Laases 

basket  carefully  balanced  upon  her  head, 
the  streets  were  almost  deserted.  The 
odour  of  frying  ham  told  how  the  late  gos- 
sips were  employed.  'Liza  was  late,  the 
ham  reminded  her. 

"  Eh-eh  ?  dis  nigger  got  ter  move  ef 
she  gits  ter  de  cake-walkin'  dis  night," 
said  she  as  she  turned  the  key  of  the 
cabin  door  and,  slipping  it  into  her  bosom, 
started  off  in  a  brisk  little  walk  down  the 
dusky,  moonlighted  road. 

A  few  straggling  stars  were  shining,  and 
through  the  locust-trees  a  silver  disk  hung 
low  in  the  heavens,  — the  new  moon.  'Liza 
Ann  had  walked  but  a  short  distance  when 
she  gave  her  head  a  sudden  little  twist 
(she  was  thinking  of  the  girl  over  in  the 
town  who  expected  to  outstrip  her  in  the 
contest  for  the  cake  that  night)  and  saw 
the  silver  bow,  suspended  like  a  thing  of 
evil,  straight  through  the  full  branching 
limbs  of  the  locust-trees. 

Unconsciously  she  gave  a  little  startled 
scream. 


Sweet  'Laases  207 

"  I  saw  it  through  de  trees,"  said  she. 
"  Oh,  my  Lord !  I  saw  de  new  moon 
through  de  trees.  Dar's  gwine  ter  be 
bad  luck." 

She  was  not  thinking  of  the  cake,  how- 
ever, nor  of  the  "  bad  luck  "  that  might 
come  to  her  through  failure  to  win  it. 
She  was  thinking  of  that  man  who  always 
walked  home  with  her  after  the  walking 
and  helped  her  to  eat  it.  What  if  he 
should  fail  to  come  ? 

She  was  relieved,  however,  of  the  fear 
before  she  had  walked  a  hundred  yards. 
Down  the  road,  in  the  half  light  of  the 
dying  day,  a  quick  step  was  hastening 
towards  her.  In  an  instant  she  was  the 
coquette,  pretending  not  to  see  him. 

Nearer  and  nearer  he  came.  'Liza  was 
humming  a  hymn  under  her  breath,  and 
heard,  seemingly,  nothing. 

"  How's  my  Sweet  'Laases  dis  eve- 
nin'  ?  " 

When  he  spoke  she  gave  a  startled 
little  scream  and  clutched  the  clothes 


2o8  Sweet  'Laases 

basket,  that  tottered  upon  her  saucy 
head  as  naturally  as  though  it  had  been 
trained  to  the  pretty  deception.  And 
indeed  it  might  have  been,  for  the  num- 
ber of  times  it  had  helped  'Liza  Ann  to 
play  that  same  part  she  was  playing  this 
evening. 

"  Did  I  skeer  my  Sweet  'Laases  ?  " 

'Liza  Ann  dropped  her  head  as  much 
as  the  big  basket  would  permit,  and 
laughed  coyly.  Her  beau  fell  into  step 
and  walked  back  with  her  a  little  distance 
to  the  bridge  that  spanned  the  dividing 
creek.  As  they  walked  they  talked,  in 
the  low,  coquettish  way  of  lovers  from  the 
rural  ranks. 

"  My  Sweet  'Laases  goin'  to  de  cake- 
walkin'  dis  night  ?  " 

"  Uh-huh." 

"  Her  goin'  ter  win  de  cake  ober  de 
town  gal  fum  furrin  parts  ? " 

"  Dal  she  am!" 

"  Eh-eh ;  hear  dat ;  dat's  de  way  talk 
it  ter  'em?  My  Sweet  'Laases  goin'  let  a 


Sweet  'Laases  209 

cullud  man  'scort  her  home  'longside  o' 
dat  cake  ? " 

«  Uh-huh." 

"  Same's  ef  he's  fitten  ter  soshate  wid 
prize  walkers  en  fine  ladies  ? " 

"  I  'spec'." 

"  You's  a  lady ;  dat's  what  you  am ;  a 
lady  fum  'way  back.  I  'spec'  I  gwine 
kiss  dem  ruby  lips  when  we's  done  wid 
de  cake?" 

"  Uh-huh  ;  I  'spec'.  Ef  dat  'ar'  town 
gal  fum  de  furrin  parts  don't  beat  me 
walkin'." 

"  Listen  at  dat  now :  beat  you  ?  Who 
gwine  beat  you  ?  Ef  she  do  dat  she  got 
git  up  'fo'  day ;  'way  long  yon'er  'fo'  day 
too,  I  tell  you.  Beat  you  nothin'.  Dey 
ain'  no  furrin  gal  gwine  beat  my  Sweet 
'Laases,  /  tell  you  ;  else  she  ain'  gwine  be 
my  Sweet  'Laases  no  mo'." 

The  flattery  was  sweet,  sweeter  than  the 
cake  itself.  'Liza  Ann  lent  a  willing  ear. 
She  even  opened  the  road  for  more. 

"  I  got  some  raid  shoes  ter  w'ar,"  said 


2io  Sweet  'Laases 

she.  "  Some  generwine  ones.  I'm  gwine 
ter  git  'em  dis  minute.  Miss  Mamie  what 
I  washes  fur  done  say  she'd  sell  'em  ter 
me  fur  de  week's  washin'.  I's  gwine  walk 
in  'em  ter-night." 

"  Uh-huh.  Lan'  o'  Canaan  !  won't  we 
be  fine  ?  A  cake  an'  a  pair  o'  raid  shoes. 
Dat  furrin  gal  won't  be  in  dis  pleasuring 
I  tell  you.  What  else  you  got,  hon  ?  " 

'Liza  Ann  drew  a  trifle  nearer.  The 
clothes  basket  was  a  great  nuisance  this 
evening. 

"  I  got  a  little  chick'n  ter  brile,  an'  a 
pan  o'  hot  biscuits,  an'  a  couple  o'  col' 
dumplin's." 

"  An'  de  cake,  hon ;  you  sholy  ain't 
gwine  furgit  de  cake  ?  " 

"  Naw,  I  ain't  furgit  de  cake,"  said  she. 
"  Hit's  a  mighty  nice  one,  I  reckin ;  hit's 
a  angul  cake." 

"  De  anguls  gwine  be  dar  ter  eat  it, 
too,  ain't  dey,  hon,  when  de  walkin's 
ober  ?" 

"  I  sholy  'spec'  so,"  she  replied  with  a 


Sweet  'Laases  211 

laugh.  "  Lor',  I  cl'ar  furgot,  but"  (strange 
she  should  have  thought  of  it  at  that  mo- 
ment), "  I  see  de  new  moon  through  de 
trees  ter-night." 

"  De  moon  ain't  got  de  gibbin'  ob  de 
cake,  hon,"  said  Rufe.  "  Don't  you  min' 
de  moon,  but  jest  keep  a  eye  on  yer 
feetses.  I  got  to  leab  my  Sweet  'Laases 
here  an'  git  'long  back  ter  de  shop  ef  I 
'spec'  ter  see  dem  raid  shoes  walk  inter 
de  kingdom  dis  night.  But  I'll  see  you 
at  de  cake-walkin',  an'  den  I'll  walk 
home  wid  de  angul  cake  an'  de  angul 
too." 

They  separated  with  a  laugh  and  a 
promise  of  meeting  again,  and  each  went 
his  own  way,  she  happy  in  the  certainty 
of  success  and  of  that  other  certainty  of 
youth,  —  love. 

He  was  thinking  of  the  angel  cake  over 
which  he  was  to  preside  when  it  should 
come  into  the  actual  rather  than  the  pros- 
pective ownership  of  his  lady-love.  He 
was  well  acquainted  with  those  angel  cakes; 


212  Sweet  'Laases 

he  had  partaken  of  more  than  one  of  them 
with  'Liza  in  the  cabin  over  in  Mullein 
Town. 

'Liza  meanwhile  hurried  on  with  the 
basket  of  laundry.  Besides  making  her 
own  toilet,  she  wanted  to  spread  her  table 
and  tidy  up  the  cabin  before  going  to  the 
cake- walking. 

The  lamps  were  lighted  when  she 
climbed  the  steps  of  the  house  that  held 
the  coveted  scarlet  footwear.  The  mis- 
tress herself  counted  out  the  pieces  of 
fluted  lace  and  lawn  as  'Liza  lifted  them 
from  the  basket.  When  the  last  had  been 
counted  she  took  out  her  pocketbook,  and 
offered  the  girl  the  two  bright  silver  dol- 
lars that  were  due  her.  'Liza  stopped  her 
with  a  gesture. 

"  Now,  Miss  Mamie,"  said  she,  "  you 
promise  I  might  hab  de  raid  shoes  fur  dis 
week's  washin'." 

The  mistress  hesitated. 

"'Liza,  you  surely  are  not  in  earnest 
about  wanting  those  slippers,"  said  she. 


Sweet  'Laases  213 

"  They  pinch  my  own  feet,  still  less  — 
What  size  do  you  wear,  'Liza  ?  " 

"  I  mostly  w'ars  a  fo',  but  I's  gwine 
w'ar  a  two  dis  night,"  said  'Liza. 

"  Why,  they'll  pinch  you  to  death;  you 
won't  be  able  to  walk  a  step  in  them." 

"  Eh-eh  !  don't  you  b'leeve  a  word  o' 
dat,  Miss  Mamie.  I'll  git  'em  on.  Ez 
far  de  pinchin',  hit's  wuf  a  pinch  ter  git  de 
cake  ober  dat  furrin  yaller  gal.  'Sides, 
Miss  Mamie,  I's  'bleeged  ter  hab  dat  cake, 
becase  I  done  axed  comp'ny  ter  he'p  me 
eat  it." 

She  dropped  her  head  forward  upon  her 
breast  and  laughed ;  the  mistress  herself 
could  but  smile  at  the  audacity  of  the 
proceeding. 

"But  what  if  you  fail  to  get  the  prize?" 
said  she. 

Such  an  idea  had  never  entered  the  girl's 
head. 

"  Eh-eh  !  "  said  she.  "  I's  'bleeged  ter  git 
it.  He  done  say  I  ain't  his  Sweet  'Laases 
no  mo'  ef  I  ain't  win  dat  'ar'  cake." 


214  Sweet  'Laases 

The  mistress  dropped  into  a  chair  and 
laughed  aloud. 

"  His  what  ?  " 

"  His  Sweet  'Laases  ;  dat's  what  he  calls 
me,  Miss  Mamie ;  he  say  I's  his  Sweet 
'Laases  becase  I  takes  all  de  cakes  fum 
de  udder  gals.  Gimme  de  shoes,  Miss 
Mamie.  I  got  ter  run  'long  an'  set  de 
table  'ginst  I  go  ter  de  chu'ch." 

As  she  opened  a  drawer  of  the  bureau, 
the  mistress  said  : 

"  You're  a  great  goose  to  do  it,  'Liza ; 
but  if  you  will  have  them  —  " 

"  Yessum,"  said  'Liza,  "  I  'spec'  I  am  ; 
but  we's  all  gre't  gooses  sometimes,  Miss 
Mamie,  when  we's  somebody's  Sweet 
'Laases." 

"Well  —  yes;  perhaps  so.  Here  are 
the  slippers :  you'd  better  keep  your  hard 
earned  money,  though,  Eliza." 

But  'Liza  was  gone,  back  to  the  cabin 
in  Mullein  Town,  with  her  treasure  in 
her  hand.  As  she  thrust  her  key  into  the 
lock  and  pushed  open  the  cabin  door  it 


Sweet  'Laases  215 

occurred  to  her  that  she  was  tired.  It  had 
been  a  busy  day,  and  she  had  stood  at  the 
ironing-table  well-nigh  the  whole  of  it. 
And  she  had  walked  over  with  the  clothes, 
and  made  a  little  visit  to  old  aunt  Nancy, 
who  was  down  with  the  rheumatism,  in  a 
cabin  at  the  further  end  of  the  village ; 
then  she  had  carried  home  the  flat-iron 
she  had  borrowed  at  another  house,  and 
had  "  stepped  "  over  to  uncle  Jeb  Moon's 
to  borrow  two  nails  and  a  hammer  with 
which  to  do  a  little  needed  carpentry  about 
the  place. 

Yes,  she  was  tired.  The  low,  shuck- 
bottomed  chair  before  the  hearth  had  a 
tempting  something  about  it ;  for  one 
moment  the  glories  of  the  cake-walking 
dimmed  before  the  demands  of  exhausted 
nature.  Only  for  a  moment,  however; 
for  as  she  drew  off  the  paper  wrapper,  and 
the  bright  red,  high-heeled  slippers  lay  in 
her  hand,  weary  nature  was  relegated  to  a 
back  seat. 

There  were  long  brilliantly  red  ribbons 


2i  6  Sweet  'Laases 

attached  to  each  ;  a  tie-string  that  was  cal- 
culated to  heal  the  most  rebellious  case  of 
weariness  on  record.  'Liza  Ann  was  her- 
self again  in  half  a  minute.  She  placed 
the  shoes  upon  the  mantel  where  she 
could  see  them  while  she  tidied  the  room. 
They  had  the  appearance  of  a  gaudily 
plumaged  bird  perched  above  the  little 
mantel  among  the  white  papers,  neatly 
scalloped,  which  served  as  lambrequin, 
and  the  glass  tumblers  filled  with  gaily 
coloured  tapers  that  were  kept  ready  for 
the  hero  of  "Sweet  'Laases." 

She  swept  and  dusted  the  room,  spread 
a  white  sheet  over  the  bed,  and  drew  a 
pair  of  shams,  embroidered  in  turkey  red, 
over  the  pillows,  shook  out  the  white 
muslin  window  curtains,  and  then  she 
"set  the  table." 

A  clean,  fresh  cloth,  two  plates,  a  couple 
of  cups  and  saucers,  knives  and  forks,  and 
two  small  white  napkins.  A  pitcher  of 
red  chrysanthemums  occupied  one  corner 
of  the  board,  while  the  broiled  chicken  in 


Sweet  'Laases  217 

a  glass-covered  dish  filled  another.  The 
biscuit  and  other  knick-knacks  were  ar- 
ranged with  systematic  nicety  about  the 
board.  In  the  centre  of  the  table  there 
was  a  tall  glass  cake-stand,  set  in  a  fluff  of 
red  and  white  fringed  papers.  The  stand 
was  empty,  reserved  for  the  cake  that  was 
to  be  won  that  night. 

When  all  had  been  made  ready,  'Liza 
made  her  toilette ;  a  neat  figure  and  trim 
enough  in  a  modest  dress  of  dark  gray 
stuff  with  a  fresh  white  apron  and  linen 
collar.  She  finished  off  her  costume,  how- 
ever, with  a  flaming  scarlet  bow  hoisted 
upon  her  short,  kinky  hair,  immediately 
above  her  forehead.  Then  came  the  slip- 
pers, and  then  too  came  the  tug  of  war. 
They  refused  to  go  on ;  twist  and  turn, 
pull  and  persuade  as  she  might,  the  num- 
ber two  refused  the  foot  of  the  number 
four.  The  poor  feet  were  weary  and 
swollen  with  their  day's  tramping,  and  the 
shoes  were  small. 

'Liza  was  in  despair. 


2 1 8  Sweet  'Laases 

"  You's  got  ter  go  on,"  she  declared  to 
the  offending  reds ;  "  you's  got  ter  go, 
and  you'd  as  well  ter  do  it." 

There  was  another  pull  and  twist,  and 
then  'Liza  Ann  took  heart. 

"  Dey  come  mighty  nigh  it  dat  time," 
she  declared,  triumphantly.  "  Dey  didn't 
lack  more'n  a  inch  dat  time ;  ef  my  feet 
wuzn't  swelled  dey'd  go  on,  I  mos' 
knows." 

She  got  up  and  rilled  the  kettle  and 
swung  it  over  the  fire  that  had  served  to 
heat  the  irons  all  day,  and  while  the  water 
was  heating  she  ate  a  bite  of  cold  victuals 
and  finished  her  preparations  for  the  frolic. 
Then  she  filled  a  tub  with  the  hot  water 
and,  lifting  her  skirts,  placed  her  feet  in 
the  steaming  vessel.  She  soaked  them  for 
ten  minutes,  then  drew  on  her  shoes  and 
stockings,  and  slipping  the  red  shoes 
under  her  shawl,  she  started  for  the 
cake-walking. 

"  Dey'll  go  on  now,"  she  told  herself, 
"  becase  dey's  got  ter  go ;  but  I  reckin  I'll 


Sweet  'Laases  219 

jest  fetch  'em  along  in  my  han'  an'  put 
'em  on  at  de  do'." 

She  was  late,  but  as  all  Mullein  Town 
was  late,  her  tardiness  created  no  special 
comment.  She  was  tired  too ;  she  couldn't 
forget  it  either ;  even  in  the  gay  scene 
about  her  the  ironing-board  and  the 
tedious  tramping  she  had  done  would  ob- 
trude like  "spots  upon  the  feast"  of  her 
pleasure. 

She  had  many  friends  among  the  as- 
sembled revellers,  and  she  had  many 
enemies.  Varied  and  many  were  the 
salutations  which  greeted  her  arrival  at 
the  church. 

"  Dar's  'Liza  Ann ;  now  look  out  far 
yer  cake,"  was  the  first  challenge  from  the 
Mullein  Town  side,  responded  to  with 
prompt  disregard  of  feeling  from  the 
opposing  candidate's  friends. 

"  Eh-eh  !  raid  shoes.  'Spec'  ter  carry 
off  de  cake,  does  yer  ?  'Spec'  dem  raid 
shoes  ter  p'intedly  walk  off  wid  it,  eh- 
eh?" 


220  Sweet  'Laases 

The  slippers  did  create  a  sensation  and 
no  mistake.  'Liza  Ann  felt  repaid  for 
the  pain  they  were  giving  her,  though  she 
had  some  fears  concerning  the  ominous 
cracking  of  threads  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  'heel.  They  represented  just  one 
week's  work,  though  that  was  a  small 
matter  as  compared  with  the  winning  of 
the  cake. 

She  laughed  and  flirted  and  was  happy 
in  hearing  herself  called  "  Sweet  'Laases  " 
now  and  then  as  the  tall  figure  of  Rufus 
the  barber  bent  over  the  scarlet  bow  upon 
her  head. 

There  were  a  full  dozen  who  had  en- 
tered the  lists,  but  only  'Liza  and  the 
champion  from  a  neighbouring  town  were 
the  favourites. 

'Liza  scanned  the.  contestants  as  they 
took  their  places  along  the  row  of  benches 
reserved  for  them.  At  the  very  end  of 
the  bench,  arrayed  in  regal  purple,  and 
with  a  white  feather  drawn  majestically 
across  her  head  and  fastened  above  her 


Sweet  'Laases  221 

ear  with  a  brooch  of  flaring  brightness, 
'Liza  Ann  beheld  her  rival. 

Her  costume  created  a  stir;  'Liza 
trembled  for  her  own  modest  gray.  A 
glance  at  the  red  slippers,  however,  reas- 
sured her ;  the  red  slippers  and  the  barber 
who  was  waiting  for  a  slice  of  that  same 
cake  resting  at  that  moment  in  full  view 
of  the  assembled  multitude,  upon  a  tall 
glass  stand  in  the  centre  of  a  table  at 
the  end  of  the  room.  It  was  an  angel 
cake ;  only  the  angel  cakes  were  deemed 
worthy  of  admission  to  a  contest  of  this 
kind. 

Promptly  at  the  hour  appointed  the 
master  of  ceremonies  called  the  assembly 
to  order. 

"  Bredderin,"  said  he,  "  an'  sisters,  we 
will  open  de  exercises  ob  de  ebenin'  wid 
prayer ;  let  us  all  pray." 

The  prayer  was  as  earnest  as  though  he 
had  been  conducting  a  protracted  meeting, 
and  the  amens  were  as  hearty.  When  it 
ended  they  sang  a  hymn,  and  then  they 


222  Sweet  'Laases 

cleared  the  space  down  the  centre  of  the 
room,  and  the  cake-walking  was  on. 

But  little  attention  was  given  to  the 
first  ten  contestants;  interest  was  centred 
upon  the  two  rival  walkers,  who  had  made 
a  record  at  similar  contests. 

'Liza  Ann  was  the  last  upon  the  list. 
When  she  saw  her  rival  rise  and  shake 
out  her  purple  skirts  amid  a  murmur  of 
"  urn's "  and  of  "  eh-eh's,"  it  required 
more  than  one  lingering  glance  at  her 
scarlet-shod  feet  to  keep  down  her  fears. 
Still  her  faith  in  her  adornment  was  suffi- 
cient. Moreover,  she  knew  the  weak- 
nesses of  her  kind. 

"  A  nigger'll  vote  fur  raid  shoes  whether 
dey's  got  any  feet  in  'em  or  not,"  she  told 
herself,  when  the  murmur  for  her  rival 
broke  out  into  actual  applause.  She  even 
smiled  as  the  yellow  girl  from  afar  took 
her  place  at  the  end  of  the  room  and,  set- 
ting her  foot  upon  the  plank  that  had 
been  chalked  for  the  purpose,  waited  the 
command  to  start. 


Sweet  'Laases  223 

It  came  from  the  master  of  ceremonies 
stationed  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  room. 

"Raidy,  —  start!" 

The  girl  lifted  her  head  with  a  proudly 
conscious  little  toss,  and  held  it  erect,  mo- 
tionless, until  she  had  caught  the  gaze  of 
every  eye  in  the  room.  Nobody  thought 
of  the  broad  flat  foot  walking  down  the 
middle  of  the  floor ;  nobody  thought  of 
the  walk  itself;  they  were  all  too  intent 
upon  the  bright,  piquant  face  under  the 
droop  of  the  white  ostrich  feather,  to 
notice  that  the  girl  had  made  her  feet 
thoroughly  comfortable  in  a  pair  of  loose, 
unpretentious  old  shoes,  whose  only  adorn- 
ment was  a  fresh  coat  of  blacking.  They 
failed  to  see  that  she  swerved  more  than 
once  from  the  chalk  lines,  which  indicated 
the  limits  allowed  for  grace  and  the  extra 
"  steps "  which  were  sometimes  indulged 
in  by  the  prize  walkers.  The  purple 
dress,  the  white  feather,  and  the  laugh- 
ing black  eyes  were  carrying  everything 
before  them.  She  nodded  here  and 


224  Sweet  'Laases 

smiled  there,  and  once  —  it  was  just  at 
the  moment  when  she  caught  the  eye  of 
tall  Rufe  the  barber  —  she  actually  lifted 
her  hand  to  her  lips  and  threw  a  kiss. 

Such  a  shout  as  went  up ! 

"  Uh-uh  !  dat  gal  kin  walk  wid  her  eye 
shet."  "  Cake-walkin's  easy  ez  eatin'  ter 
dat  nigger."  "  Some  folks'll  hab  ter  git 
up  'fo'  day  ef  dey  beats  dat  'ar'."  "  Land 
o'  Canaan  !  Look  at  dat,  will  somebody  ?  " 

She  reached  the  end  of  the  room  in  a 
perfect  storm  of  applause. 

"  Raised  sech  a  wind  de  feather  in  her 
haid  got  ter  wavin'  hits  own  se'f,"  one  of 
the  sisters  was  heard  to  declare,  while  an- 
other even  got  up  and  shook  hands  with 
the  candidate,  and  told  her  in  a  knowing 
way  that  "  dey  ain'  been  no  sech  walkin' 
as  dat,  not  sence  de  war." 

And  then,  when  the  noise  had  subsided, 
came  'Liza's  turn.  She  took  her  place 
where  the  late  victor  had  taken  hers,  and 
in  her  turn  awaited  the  signal  to  start. 
She  felt,  by  that  intuition  that  comes  to 


Sweet  'Laases  225 

all  of  us,  that  she  had  lost  in  the  gain  of 
her  rival;  but  she  had  friends  who  were 
still  loyal,  still  hopeful,  still  enthusiastic. 

She  glanced  at  tall  Rufe,  but  he  was 
bending  over  the  white  feather,  uncon- 
scious of,  or  else  indifferent  to  the  fact 
that  she,  his  own  "  Sweet  'Laases,"  was  at 
that  moment  about  to  pass  through  the 
painful  ordeal  of  walking  for  the  prize. 
She  turned  her  eyes  away.  One  more 
glance  in  that  direction,  and  the  red  shoes 
would  never  be  called  upon  to  bear  her 
upon  the  journey  down  that  long  yellow 
pine  plank.  The  next  moment  she  ral- 
lied and  took  courage.  Rufe  looked  up, 
smiled,  and  came  a  step  nearer.  After 
all,  she  had  a  chance  to  win  ;  and  should 
she  lose,  she  still  had  him,  her  lover. 
Life  couldn't  be  wholly  void  nor  defeat 
utterly  crushing  so  long  as  fate  left  her 
love. 

She  lifted  her  skirts,  ever  so  slightly, 
when  the  signal  for  starting  had  been 
given.  There  was  a  ripple,  slight,  but 


226  Sweet  'Laases 

sufficient  to  show  that  the  tide  might  be 
turned. 

A  trifle  higher  rose  the  gray  skirt ;  there 
was  a  hint  of  fluted  ruffling  visible  at  the 
hem,  white  and  neat  as  'Liza's  hand  could 
make  it.  Not  one  there  but  rendered 
Caesar  his  due  when  it  came  to  laundry. 
Not  one  but  had  great  respect  for  the  tub 
over  which  'Liza  Ann  presided. 

If  she  had  not  been  so  set  upon  calling 
attention  to  the  slippers,  poor  'Liza !  all 
might  have  been  well.  But  the  slippers 
were  her  ruin  ;  the  slippers,  designed  for 
triumph,  were  destined  to  prove  her  down- 
fall. She  had  the  attention  of  the  house ; 
her  late  enemy  herself  leaned  forward  with 
parted  lips  and  flashing  eye  to  watch  the 
progress  of  the  red  feet  down  the  pine 
plank. 

'Liza  had  many  little  tricks  of  grace  ; 
she  had  a  way  of  turning  her  toes  a  trifle 
out  and  then  giving  them  a  sudden  turn 
in ;  sometimes  she  would  lift  one  foot,  like 
a  young  pullet  about  to  steal  upon  a  for- 


Sweet  'Laases  227 

bidden  flower-bed  where  the  seed  has  been 
newly  sown,  and  then  follow  it  cautiously 
with  the  other.  This  step  never  failed  to 
elicit  applause.  The  other  girl  had  really 
taken  no  "  steps ;  "  they  would  remember 
it  when  'Liza  Ann  had  showed  them  hers. 
Sometimes  she  minced,  like  an  old  maid 
that  is  afraid  of  not  being  graceful ;  but 
being  young  and  free  from  any  hint  of 
awkwardness,  in  'Liza  the  trick  was  passed 
for  grace,  as  other  old  tricks  will  sometimes 
pass  upon  young  tricksters.  And  again 
sometimes  she  would  drop  into  a  long, 
swinging  step  that  was  the  perfection  of 
grace  itself. 

She  had  just  started  out  upon  her  pro- 
gramme when  another  stitch  broke  in  the 
back  seam  of  the  slipper.  Another  step 
and  she  remembered  the  ironing-board  and 
the  long  tramp  to  carry  the  clothes  home. 
She  was  tired  !  One  step  more  and  —  ah  ! 
there  was  an  unmistakable  limp  in  the 
pretty  walk. 

A  limp  that  grew  with  every  movement 


228  Sweet  'Laases 

of  the  scarlet  slippers.  R-r-r-r  went  the 
seam  at  the  back,  and  r-r-r-r  went  'Liza's 
hopes  and  'Liza's  heart. 

While  the  judges  were  taking  the  vote 
she  crept  outside  and  drew  on  her  old 
shoes,  folded  the  remains  of  the  red  slip- 
pers under  her  shawl  and  made  ready  to 
go  home.  She  had  lost  the  prize ;  she 
knew  that ;  but  she  was  too  tired  to  care 
very  much,  and  after  all  she  had  her  lover. 
She  waited  there  for  him,  at  the  door,  back 
in  the  shadow  where  the  light  from  the 
lantern  above  the  door  could  not  find  her ; 
waited  and  revelled  in  the  sympathy  which, 
after  all,  was  as  sweet  to  anticipate  as  the 
victory  had  been. 

The  crowd  filed  out,  singly,  then  in 
groups,  laughing,  joking,  enjoying  or  com- 
miserating her  defeat.  Nobody  saw  the 
lonely  little  figure  crouched  against  the 
shadowed  wall ;  not  even  Rufe,  who  came 
out  at  last,  the  prize-winner  upon  one  arm, 
and  the  great  cake,  the  beautiful  angel  cake, 
lifted  high  above  his  head  with  the  other. 


Sweet  'Laases  229 

They  passed  so  close  she  could  have 
touched  them  with  her  fingers,  but  she 
would  as  soon  have  thought  of  touching  a 
poisonous  reptile. 

She  hurried  home  alone,  and  rumbled 
under  the  doorstep  for  the  key.  As  the 
door  swung  back,  a  golden  dash  of  moon- 
light streamed  into  the  room,  showing  her 
the  white-spread  table  and  the  preparations 
she  had  made  for  her  lover's  coming. 

The  memory  of  joy  anticipated,  though 
it  be  nipped  in  the  first  fond  flower  of  its 
conception,  is  sometimes  more  keenly 
bitter  than  the  actual  death  of  the  joy 
itself. 

'Liza  Ann  had  kept  her  disappointment 
down  and  had  held  her  grief  under  re- 
straint, until  that  carefully  prepared  table 
with  its  mocking  decoration  of  crimson 
flowers  met  her  eyes.  The  white  cloth 
was  like  a  shroud  to  her  poor  heart. 

She  walked  over  to  the  fireplace,  stirred 
the  red  coals  into  a  white  heat,  and  with  a 
hand  that  did  not  falter  she  tossed  the  red 


230  Sweet  'Laases 

shoes  into  the  equally  red  coal-bed.  Then 
she  dropped  into  the  seat  she  had  set  for 
her  lover  and,  burying  her  face  in  the 
snowy  table-cloth,  burst  into  tears. 

"  Hit  ain't  de  angul  cake,"  she  sobbed ; 
"  I  don't  keer  nothin'  'bout  de  ole  angul 
cake ;  I  don't  keer  fur  de  money  flung 
'way  on  de  shoes,  an'  I  don't  keer  'bout 
dey-alls  laffin*  at  me,  —  but  I  heerd  him 
call  dat  yaller  gal  bis  Sweet  ' 'Laases  !  " 


A  Grain  of  Gold 


EVERYBODY  said  he  would  go  to 
the  bad  ;  everybody  expected  it  of 
him.  Whether  it  was  the  fulfilment  of 
the  promise,  "  As  thy  faith  so  be  it,"  or 
whether  he  felt  any  conscientious  obliga- 
tion resting  upon  him  not  to  disappoint 
public  expectation,  nobody  knows.  No- 
body was  surprised,  however,  when  news 
went  over  the  town  that  Jim  Royal  was 
going  to  the  penitentiary. 

Going  to  "the  pen"  at  sixteen  years  of 
age.  Nobody  thought  of  that.  More- 
over, the  old  Tennessee  prison  contains 
scores  of  boys  under  sixteen,  for  that  mat- 
ter ;  and  if  they  do  not  work  satisfactorily, 
the  lessees  of  the  prison  have  made  no 
231 


232,  A  Grain  of  Gold 

complaint  of  them ;  therefore,  they  do 
work  satisfactorily ;  for  the  lessees  are  not 
likely  to  pay  the  State  for  the  privilege  of 
feeding  worthless  hands.  But  as  for  vag- 
abond Jim,  if  anybody  thought  of  him  at 
all,  it  was  something  after  this  wise : 

"  Safe  place.  Keep  him  out  of  mis- 
chief. Protect  other  people's  boys.  Bad 
influence,  Jim's.  Town's  scourge.  Bad 
mother  before  him.  Questionable  father. 
Made  to  work." 

Now  there  were  two  considerations  in 
this  category,  concerning  which  the  public 
opinion  was  exactly  correct.  More  so, 
indeed,  than  public  opinion  is  usually 
known  to  be.  Namely  :  Jim  would  "  be 
made  to  work."  No  doubt  about  that. 
There  were  straps  for  the  obstreperous, 
the  water-pump  for  the  sullen,  the  pool 
for  the  belligerent,  the  lash  for  the  lazy, 
and  for  the  rebellious,  —  the  shotgun. 

Oh,  yes ;  Jim  would  be  made  to  work. 
The  town  was  quite  right  about  that. 

The  other  consideration,  although  not 


A  Grain  of  Gold  233 

altogether  so  important,  was  a  trifle  more 
interesting.  Jim's  "  questionable  father ! " 

It  was  his  mother's  fault  that  public 
interest  (?)  was  not  gratified.  And  it  never 
forgave  the  poor  outcast  for  leaving  the 
world  with  that  seal  of  secrecy  still  unbro- 
ken. The  heart  broke,  but  not  the  seal. 
They  cast  her  off  utterly  when,  poor  girl- 
mother,  she  stubbornly  refused  to  reveal 
the  name  of  her  betrayer.  To  them  there 
was  nothing  heroic  in  the  answer,  "  Because 
my  life  is  ruined,  shall  I  ruin  his  ? " 

So  they  treasured  it  against  her  in 
her  grave,  and  against  her  son  after  her, 
in  his  grave  too :  that  living,  loathsome 
sepulchre,  the  State  prison. 

But  they  had  surmised  a  good  deal 
regarding  Jim's  paternal  parentage.  They 
searched  for  resemblances,  birthmarks,  pe- 
culiarities of  feature,  owning  that  nature 
always  set  her  brand  upon  the  bastard, 
and  that  the  features,  as  well  as  the  iniqui- 
ties of  the  father,  are  always  visited  upon 
the  illegitimate.  If  this  be  the  case,  Jim 


234  A  Grain  of  Gold 

must  have  come  of  some  strange  blood. 
Knowing  him  and  his  history,  some 
might  have  traced  the  poor  mother  in 
the  boy,  although  of  that  mother  he 
knew  very  little.  He  had  been  told  — 
oh,  yes,  he  had  been  told  —  that  she  was 
found  in  a  garret  one  December  morning 
with  a  vagabond  baby  nursing  at  her  dead 
breast.  And  old  Nancy  Piatt,  the  only 
one  who  ever  seemed  to  dislike  talking  to 
the  lad  about  it,  had  told  him  that  she  was 
"  a  pretty  corpse ;  as  pretty  as  the  grave 
ever  held,"  and  that  the  dead  lips  "  wore 
a  smile,"  those  dead  lips  that  never  would, 
and  never  could,  give  up  their  pitiful 
secret.  Poor  lips;  death  had  granted  that 
which  life  denied  them,  —  a  smile.  Stub- 
bornness, the  town  gossips  called  the  wo- 
man's silence.  In  other  circumstances  it 
would  have  answered  to  the  higher  term 
of  fidelity,  or,  perhaps,  heroism.  Jim 
was  very  like  his  mother,  old  Nancy  said, 
despite  Dame  Nature's  habit  of  branding. 
Surely  Nancy  ought  to  be  authority,  for 


A  Grain  of  Gold  235 

when  the  boy  was  left,  at  two  months  old, 
on  the  town,  old  Nancy  Piatt,  a  drunken 
old  crone,  who  washed  the  clothes  of  the 
rich  all  the  week,  and  drank  her  earnings 
Saturday  evenings,  was  the  only  one  who 
offered  to  "  take  the  cub "  whom  the 
authorities  were  ready  to  give  away. 

A  sorry  chance  had  Jim,  although  he 
never  realised  that.  At  ten  he  could 
drink  as  much  liquor  as  Nancy  herself, 
and  outswear  the  ablest  lawyer  in  the  town. 
At  twelve  he  could  pick  a  lock  better 
than  a  blacksmith,  and  was  known  as  one 
of  the  most  cunning  sneak-thieves  in  the 
place.  At  fourteen  he  beat  a  little  boy  of 
eight  unmercifully.  (Did  anybody  expect 
old  Nancy  to  tell  him  that  was  the  crown 
crime  of  cowardice  ?) 

Then  some  one  suspected  Nancy  of  a 
crime.  One  of  those  nameless  crimes 
concerning  which  the  law  is  very  jealous, 
not  considering  the  slander  prevented,  the 
"  good  name  preserved,"  and  the  disgrace 
averted.  All  in  high  circles,  and  all  set 


236  A  Grain  of  Gold 

in  the  scale  against  a  useless  little  baby, — 
a  wicked  little  illegitimate  baby,  that  is 
so  heartless  as  to  be  born,  and  thereby 
bring  a  world  of  trouble  upon  wealthy 
and  respectable  people. 

That  old  Nancy  —  for  handsome  con- 
siderations— had  made  away  with  the  self- 
ish baby,  Jim  knew  as  well  as  anybody. 
And  when  he  was  offered  quite  as  hand- 
some a  sum  to  tell  all  he  knew  about  it, 
his  reply  was  to  plant  his  fist  in  the  eye 
of  the  man  who  had  made  the  offer.  Not 
that  he  cared  for  the  cause  the  babe's  com- 
ing had  disgraced.  He  only  meant  to 
stand  by  old  Nance,  and  not  all  the  money 
in  the  county's  coffers  could  have  forced 
his  lips  to  speak  that  which  would  hurt 
her.  He  was  afterward  arrested  and 
brought  before  the  magistrate,  together 
with  Nance,  and  swore,  not  by  the  cal- 
endared saints,  —  he  hadn't  made  their 
acquaintance,  —  but  by  "  George,"  by 
"  Gum,"  by  "  Gosh,"  and  even  by  God 
himself,  that  he  knew  nothing  at  all  about 


A  Grain  of  Gold  237 

the  matter.  They  knew  he  was  lying, 
but  there  was  no  way  to  prove  it,  as  he 
attempted  no  dodge.  He  was  merely 
ignorant.  Nance  hadn't  asked  him  to  do 
this ;  she  knew  he  would  do  it  if  neces- 
sary. She  had  not  attempted  to  win  his 
love,  his  confidence,  or  his  gratitude. 
Perhaps  she  believed,  in  her  blind  way, 
that  these  things  are  born,  not  won,  like 
respect,  and  honour,  and  admiration.  He 
was  fifteen  when  this  happened.  At  six- 
teen Nance  died  from  the  effects  of  a  blow 
from  a  policeman's  club  while  trying  to 
arrest  her.  Two  weeks  later  the  police- 
man died  from  the  effects  of  a  blow  from 
Jim's  club  while  trying  to  protect  old 
Nance.  Two  months  later  the  prison 
door  closed  on  Jim,  and  the  town  took 
breath  again  in  a  long,  relieved  sigh  of 
"  Safe  at  last !  "  As  if  vagabond  Jim's 
salvation  had  lain  a  weight  for  sixteen 
years  upon  their  consciousness. 

It  was  certainly  the  face  of  a  hardened 
creature  that  followed  the  sheriff  to   the 


23  8  A  Grain  of  Gold 

railroad  station  that  June  morning.  June, 
sweet  old  love-laden,  rose-burdened  June. 
Of  all  the  year,  to  give  up  one's  freedom 
in  June  !  And  how  many  years  before  he 
would  breathe  the  free,  rose-haunted  air 
of  another  June  ?  Twenty.  Why,  the 
twentieth  century  would  be  dawning  be- 
fore he  would  be  free  again.  Would  his 
face  be  any  the  less  hard  at  the  expiration 
of  his  term  ?  The  penitentiary  isnt  a  hot- 
bed of  virtue,  and  Jim  wasn't  wax.  No- 
body wasted  any  hopes  on  him,  —  except 
the  lessees,  who,  rinding  him  able-bodied, 
young,  and  healthy,  sent  him  to  the 
Branch  prison  to  dig  coal. 

True,  an  old  gray-bearded  warden  of- 
fered a  plea  for  his  youth,  and  a  protest 
against  the  associations  of  the  Branch,  and 
was  promptly  reminded  that  the  Tennes- 
see State  prison  was  not  a  reformatory 
institute,  but  that  it  had  been  leased  as  a 
financial  speculation,  which  was  expected 
to  yield  at  least  ten  per  cent,  on  the 
money  invested  by  the  lessees. 


A  Grain  of  Gold  239 

So  Jim  went  to  the  coal  mines  in  the 
mountains,  leaving  his  life,  his  poor,  puny 
sixteen  years  of  dust  and  degradation, 
behind  him.  If  there  was  anything  of 
brightness,  any  softening  memory,  any 
tender  touch  of  the  human  —  dream 
touches  are  they  to  the  castaway  —  which 
Jim  carried  with  him,  it  was  the  memory 
of  old  Nance,  drunken,  filthy,  murderous 
old  Nance,  and  the  face  of  the  gray- 
bearded  warden  who  had  lifted  his  voice 
in  his  behalf. 

It  was  noon  of  a  day  in  June,  early  in 
the  eighties,  that  Jim  trudged  across  the 
coal-sprinkled  ridge  upon  which  rose  the 
great  gray,  weather-beaten,  rat-infested 
fence,  which  was  dignified  by  the  name  of 
stockade.  To  go  out  of  life  into  a  dun- 
geon like  that,  and  at  noon  of  a  day  in 
June !  That  Jim  made  no  sign  was  ac- 
credited to  his  hardness  of  heart.  That, 
having  registered  and  heard  an  official 
sneer  at  the  name,  Jim  Royal,  and  having 
passed  through  the  hands  of  the  barber, 


240  A  Grain  of  Gold 

and  being  duly  entered  at  last  among  the 
State's  hired  help,  and  dropped  down  on 
his  ill-smelling  bunk,  a  rat  came  and 
gnawed  his  ear,  and  the  vermin  crawled 
unmolested  over  him,  and  still  he  gave  no 
sign,  was  set  down  to  the  account  of  his 
laziness. 

"  He  won't  be  vicious,"  the  warden  said, 
"  he  is  too  lazy,"  and  he  thought  yearn- 
ingly of  the  rawhide  lash  hanging  in  the 
office.  That  the  stupor  might  be  the 
result  of  weariness  had  never  once  sug- 
gested itself.  If  it  had,  why,  still  there 
was  the  lash.  The  lessees'  ten  per  cent, 
must  be  gotten  out  of  that  herd  in  the 
stockade,  even  if  it  should  be  necessary  to 
beat  it  out. 

But  when,  the  next  morning,  Jim  fell 
into  his  place  as  brisk  as  any,  the  warden 
began  to  waver  between  the  lash  and  the 
pool.  If  he  did  not  need  the  one,  he  was 
fairly  sure  to  require  the  other.  All  of 
them  needed  some  one,  may  be  two,  of 
the  prison's  medicines,  and  the  warden 


A  Grain  of  Gold  241 

made  a  special  point  of  spying  out  the 
diseases  of  new  arrivals,  and  applying  the 
remedy  as  soon  as  possible.  It  told  them, 
more  plainly  than  words,  precisely  the 
manner  of  treatment  they  were  to  expect 
in  case  of  any  appearance  of  any  of  the 
several  moral  diseases  with  which  all  con- 
victs, young,  old,  rich,  or  poor,  were 
supposed  to  be  afflicted. 

Therefore,  the  warden  "  had  his  eye  on 
Jim."  And  when  the  gang  started  from 
the  stockade  across  the  black,  coal-dusted 
mountains,  to  the  blacker  mine  beneath, 
he  called  to  the  new  arrival,  draining  the 
last  of  some  sloppy  coffee  from  a  dingy 
tin  cup  at  the  greasy  board  table  of  the 
shed  room  that  served  for  dining-room 
and  laundry  during  the  week,  and  for 
chapel  on  Sundays  : 

"  Come  here,  sir ;  what's  your  name, 
sir?  At  least,  what  one  did  you  leave 
on  the  book  out  there  ?  " 

"  The  only  one  I've  got,"  said  Jim.  "  The 
clerk  down  there  made  it  to  spell  Royal," 


242  A  Grain  of  Gold 

"  Royal."  A  sneer  curled  the  lips  of 
the  official.  "Here,  Black,"  —  to  the 
guard,  —  "  add  this  royal  renegade  to  your 
company.  Here,  you  fellow,  fall  into 
line  here,  and  be  quick  about  it." 

To  Jim,  accustomed  from  the  day  his 
dead  mother's  nipple  had  been  taken  from 
his  toothless  gums  to  having  his  own  free 
will,  the  surly  command  came  like  a  threat. 
He  hesitated. 

"  Will  you  come,  you  bit  of  carrion,  or 
shall  I  fetch  you  ?  " 

Jim  stood  like  a  young  lion  at  bay. 
His  hands  unconsciously  drew  up  into 
fists ;  one  foot  moved  forward ;  the  pris- 
oners stood  in  wondering  groups,  some 
recalling  the  day,  five,  ten,  fifteen,  ay, 
even  twenty  years  before,  when  they,  too, 
had  thought  of  defiance.  They,  too,  had 
stood  at  bay.  But  they  had  learned  the 
folly  of  it,  and  they  knew  Jim  would  learn 
too ;  but  still  they  half  hoped  he  would 
get  in  that  one  blow  before  the  lesson 
began. 


A  Grain  of  Gold  243 

Such  fists !  Such  strength !  And  he 
came  on  like  a  young  tiger,  his  eyes 
ablaze,  his  nostrils  quivering,  his  arm 
poised,  his  full  chest  expanding,  perfectly 
aware  the  ofHcer  was  feeling  for  the  pistol 
at  his  belt,  when,  quick  and  noiseless,  a 
small  hand,  delicate  as  a  woman's,  reached 
out  and  drew  the  clenched  fist  down ;  a 
voice,  softened  by  despair,  said :  "  It  isn't 
any  use ;  they'll  down  you  at  last,  and 
you  only  make  it  harder." 

It  was  all  done  so  quickly,  the  guards 
around  had  not  had  time  "  to  draw,"  else 
the  rebellious  one  had  received  the  reward 
of  rebellion. 

The  warden  replaced  his  pistol,  with  a 
curse  upon  it  for  not  obeying  his  effort  to 
draw  it.  The  young  convict  had  ceased 
hostilities,  and  stood  submissive  by  the 
side  of  his  unknown  friend.  He  had  not 
once  glanced  at  him,  but  something  in 
his  voice  had  controlled  and  subdued  his 
passion. 

"  Away    with    him,"    cried    the  officer. 


244  A  Grain  of  Gold 

"  To  the  pump,  and  afterward  to  the 
pool.  Get  the  straps  ready  there.  We'll 
show  our  royal  friend  who  is  master  here." 

Again  came  an  idea  of  resistance,  but 
the  same  small  hand  was  laid  upon  his 
arm. 

"  My  friend,  it  isn't  any  use.  I  tried 
it  all.  Go  on  and  be  punished.  It  is 
part  of  the  life  here.  You  receive  it 
whether  merited  or  not." 

They  dragged  him  off,  strapped  him, 
hand  and  foot,  and  writhing,  foaming,  like 
the  untamed  wild  beast  that  he  was,  they 
thrust  him  under  the  great  prison  pump. 

"  That  will  cool  his  royal  blood," 
laughed  a  guard,  as  the  fearful  force  of 
the  cold  current  beating  upon  his  shaven 
head  knocked  him  senseless. 

Drenched  and  beaten,  utterly  exhausted, 
he  lay  like  a  limp  rag,  until  three  men  had 
spent  their  strength  upon  the  pump. 
Then  to  the  pool  they  dragged  him,  and 
"  ducked  "  him  three  times  into  the  dark, 
stagnant  water.  Then  back  to  the  war- 


A  Grain  of  Gold  245 

den,  who  asked  if  he  "  thought  he  had 
enough." 

"  Not  enough  to  make  me  take  your 
jaw,"  was  the  foolish  answer. 

"The  lash,"  said  the  warden,  and  the 
miserable,  half-drowned  creature  was  taken 
away  to  be  beaten  "  into  subjection." 

The  guard  overlooked  the  punishment. 
A  stout,  burly  convict  was  required  to  per- 
form it.  He  would  have  refused,  being  in 
like  strait,  only  that  he  knew  the  useless- 
ness.  He  had  been  there  a  long  time, 
many  years,  and,  according  to  his  sentence, 
would  be  there  for  fifty  more.  He  had 
picked  up  a  little  Scripture  at  the  prison 
Sunday  school,  so  that  when  he  lifted  the 
whip  above  the  back  they  had  made  bare 
for  it,  he  whispered,  by  way  of  apology: 

"  And  one  Simon,  a  Cyrenian,  him  they 
compelled  to  bear  the  cross." 

But  Jim  didn't  understand,  even  if  he 
had  heard.  All  he  heard  was  that  low, 
patient  voice  calling  him  "  friend." 

In  the  afternoon  he  was  sent  down  to 


246  A  Grain  of  Gold 

the  mines,  subdued  but  not  conquered. 
Every  evil  passion  of  his  nature  had  been 
aroused,  and  would  never  slumber  again. 

After  that  first  day's  experience  he 
seemed  indeed  a  wild  beast.  He  fought 
among  the  prisoners,  rebelled  against  the 
rules  of  the  prison,  would  have  nothing 
to  do  with  any  but  the  worst  of  the  men, 
shirked  his  work  until  he  had  to  be 
strapped  and  beaten ;  in  short  made  a 
record  that  had  never  been  surpassed  by 
any  previous  man  on  the  prison  books. 

Yet,  when  there  was  danger  of  any  kind, 
he  was  the  first  there.  One  morning  there 
was  an  explosion  in  the  mine,  and  more 
than  a  score  of  prisoners  were  in  danger 
of  being  suffocated  before  help  could  reach 
them.  Indeed,  everybody  was  afraid  to 
venture  in  that  black  hole  from  which 
the  hot,  sulphurous  gases  were  pouring. 
Everybody  but  Jim.  Even  the  warden 
had  to  admit  Jim's  courage.  "He  ain't 
afraid  of  the  devil,"  he  declared,  when  he 
saw  the  boy  jump  into  an  empty  coal-car, 


A  Grain  of  Gold  247 

call  to  the  mule  to  "git  up,"  and  disap- 
pear in  the  gas  and  smoke  with  the  empty 
cars  rumbling  behind  him.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  he  came  out,  but  he  brought 
ten  insensible  convicts  in  his  first  haul. 
The  lessees  recommended  him  for  that, 
and  promised  to  make  it  good  sometime 
if  he  kept  on  at  that  rate. 

Another  time  there  was  a  fire.  The 
rumbling  old  rat-hole  was  threatened  with 
destruction,  and  with  it  three  hundred  and 
seventy-five  of  the  State's  charges.  The 
men  glared  like  beasts  through  the  cracks 
of  the  tottering  stockade.  Liberty,  it 
would  come  surely  in  some  form.  The 
fire  was  confined  for  a  time  to  the  wing 
where  the  hospital  was.  But  when  it 
mounted  in  a  great  blood-dappled  sheet 
of  flame  to  the  top  of  an  old  rotten  tower 
above  the  main  building,  where  the  pris- 
oners were  huddled,  it  became  evident 
that  all  must  go  unless  the  old  tower 
could  be  torn  away.  Up  the  uneven, 
rickety  wall  went  Jim,  nimble  as  a  squir- 


248  A  Grain  of  Gold 

rel.  Crack  !  crack  !  fell  the  dead  boards  ; 
then  with  a  clang  and  clamour,  down  rolled 
the  old  bell  from  its  perch,  carrying  with 
it  the  last  of  the  burning  tower. 

Jim  climbed  down  as  sullen  as  ever.  He 
didn't  care  to  save  the  old  shanty,  or  to  win 
any  praise  from  anybody.  He  was  simply 
not  afraid,  and  his  courage  would  not  per- 
mit him  to  do  other  than  what  he  did. 

Nobody  cared  for  him  specially,  al- 
though the  soft -voiced  man  with  the 
small,  womanish  hands  spoke  to  him 
often,  and  always  kindly.  Jim  never  for- 
got that  he  had  called  him  friend.  The 
memory  of  it  stayed  with  him,  like  the 
kiss  of  a  first  love  that  lingers  long  after 
love  is  dead.  Most  of  the  men  were 
afraid  of  him,  so  fierce  was  his  temper, 
and  so  easily  aroused.  Even  the  warden 
had  learned  that  he  could  not  tame  him. 
The  strap,  the  lash,  the  pool,  the  pump, 
had  been  applied  times  without  number. 
The  warden  was  still  "  looking  around  " 
for  the  time  to  apply  the  last  resource,  the 


A  Grain  of  Gold  249 

shotgun.  It  was  pretty  sure  to  come,  for 
the  boy  was  entirely  "  unscrupulous." 

Summer  set  in  again.  Again  June 
came,  and  tried  to  bloom  even  on  the 
coal-tracked  mountain  about  the  mine. 
Somewhere  up,  back  among  the  pine  and 
shadows,  the  wild  roses  were  blooming, 
and  the  grapes.  Their  odours  came  down 
to  the  men  as  they  tramped  across  the 
hot,  bare,  coal-strewn  way  between  the 
stockade  and  the  mines. 

With  the  coming  of  June  came  a  num- 
ber of  strangers  to  the  mountain.  They 
always  came  in  the  warm  season,  but  they 
quartered  themselves  over  in  the  town, 
beyond  the  stockade,  and  the  stench,  and 
filth,  and  crime  found  there. 

Only  one,  a  young  man,  a  minister  who 
had  been  expelled  from  the  church  in  the 
city  where  he  had  preached,  found  his  way 
to  the  prison.  He  went  out  one  Sunday 
afternoon,  and  asked  permission  to  preach 
to  the  convicts.  It  was  freely  granted. 
Such  wild  heresy  !  Such  odd,  eccentric 


A  Grain  of  Gold 


ideas  !  Such  flights  of  oratory  !  Such 
fiery  brands  tossed  into  the  old  tabernacles 
of  religious  belief!  Such  blows  upon  the 
old  batteries  of  narrowness  and  impossi- 
bility !  They  had  never  heard  anything 
like  it.  Had  he  preached  thus  anywhere 
else  he  would  have  been  promptly  silenced. 
But  a  lot  of  convicts  was  not  an  audience 
likely  to  be  injured  by  the  too  free  circu- 
lating of  the  doctrine  he  advocated.  What 
if  he  should  convince  them  that  eternal 
punishment  was  a  myth,  and  an  insult 
flung  in  the  face  of  the  Creator  ?  A  slur 
upon  his  justice,  and  a  lie  to  his  divine 
goodness?  What  if  he  snapped  his  finger 
at  a  lake  of  brimstone  and  of  eternal  fire  ? 
And  his  wild  ravings  about  an  inconsistent 
Being,  accepted  as  the  head  of  all  wisdom, 
and  tenderness,  and  mercy,  and  at  the 
same  time  as  the  perfection  of  all  cruelty 
and  injustice,  in  that  he  creates  only  to 
destroy,  —  what  if  the  seed  scattered  should 
take  root  ?  What  if  those  old  sin-black- 
ened souls  should  comfort  themselves  with 


A  Grain  of  Gold 


the  new  doctrine,  the  idea  that  no  good 
can  be  lost  ?  God  cannot  be  God  and 
destroy  any  good  thing.  It  is  wicked, 
it  is  devilish,  to  kill  that  which  is  good. 
God  cannot  be  wicked  and  be  the  good 
God,  the  kind  All-Father,  at  the  same 
time.  Nor  has  he  created  any  so  vile  as 
to  be  without  some  one  virtue.  In  the 
dust  of  the  evil  he  has  not  failed  to  drop 
one  grain  of  gold  to  glisten,  and  to  make 
glad  the  dull  waste  of  life.  The  grain  is 
there,  planted  by  God's  hand,  in  every 
soul.  It  was  in  their  souls,  poor,  old, 
sin-covered,  forsaken  souls,  toiling  up  to 
the  light  through  those  begrimed  walls, 
among  the  filth,  and  dust,  and  mould. 
Not  one  of  them  but  was  God's  work, 
and  bore  his  grain  of  gold.  None  would 
be  lost,  not  one.  What  matter  if  the 
prison  registrar's  table  of  death  did  record 
so  many  "  Found  dead  !  "  "  Drowned  !  " 
"Killed!"  "Shot!"  "Blank!"  "Blank!" 
"  Blank  !  "  Meaning  they  disappeared, 
nobody  knows  how  or  when. 


A  Grain  of  Gold 


It  was  a  strange,  sweet  hope  to  them, 
that  came  in  that  wild  sermon  of  a  bishop- 
silenced  young  heretic.  They  thought 
about  it  a  good  deal,  and  began,  some  of 
them  whose  terms  were  to  expire  with  life, 
to  dig  down  into  the  rust  and  mire  with 
the  spade  of  conscience  for  the  hidden 
grain. 

The  minister  was  at  the  stockade  often, 
cheering,  sympathising,  and  always  com- 
forting the  convicts  with  the  certainty  of 
eternal  love,  and  the  folly  of  eternal  pun- 
ishment. One  day  he  stumbled  upon  a 
man  who  was  being  strapped  and  prepared 
for  punishment  at  the  pump.  His  face 
was  sullen,  and  there  were  splotches  of 
blood  upon  his  clothes,  and  he  limped 
when  he  attempted  to  walk.  Still  there 
was  something  in  the  old  young  face 
that  neither  cruelty  nor  threats  could  kill. 
They  might  turn  on  the  icy  water,  and 
exhaust  themselves  with  lashing  him,  but 
that  stoic  determination  would  not  yield. 
They  might  murder  him,  but  from  his 


A  Grain  of  Gold  253 

fixed,  dead  eyes,  /'/  would  glare  at  them, 
that  same  heroic,  immovable  something 
that  had  shone  in  the  staring  eyes  of  his 
dead  mother. 

No  visitors  were  allowed  in  that  part  of 
the  prison,  so  the  minister  held  back  until, 
fearing  the  limp  figure  under  the  pump 
would  be  beaten  to  death  by  the  cruel 
pour  of  water  upon  his  head,  he  stepped 
forward  to  interfere. 

"In  God's  name,  I  beg  you  to  stop," 
he  cried,  his  hand  uplifted,  his  eyes  full 
of  tears.  "  Your  punishment  is  beastly. 
What  has  the  fellow  done  ?  Is  some  one 
murdered  ? " 

"  Some  one  ought  to  be,"  sullenly  replied 
the  man  at  the  pump-handle.  "And  some 
one  might  be  if  this  sneaking  rascal  was 
the  only  hope  of  preventing  it." 

There  had  been  a  plot  among  the  con- 
victs to  batter  down  the  shaky  old  stock- 
ade, and  break  for  freedom.  They  had 
secured  a  gun  and  some  ammunition, 
where,  no  one  could  tell,  and  the  plot  had 


254  A  Grain  of  Gold 

well-nigh  succeeded.  The  guard  on  the 
wall  had  been  killed,  three  men  had  es- 
caped, and  the  prison  bloodhounds  were 
lying  in  the  kennel  with  their  throats  cut. 

Already  the  governor  of  the  State  had 
telegraphed  freedom  to  the  convicts  not  in 
the  scheme  who  would  give  the  names  of 
those  engaged  in  it.  Even  the  leader's 
name ;  for  that  freedom  was  offered,  par- 
don unconditional. 

Something  let  fall  discovered  to  the 
warden  that  Jim,  while  not  in,  was  familiar 
with  the  whole  history  of  the  insurrection. 
The  offer  of  freedom  had  no  further  effect 
upon  him  than  a  careless  refusal  to  comply 
with  the  terms  set  forth.  But  when  force 
was  suggested,  he  set  his  lips  in  that  old 
way  that  belonged  to  his  mother,  and  said 
nothing.  Three  days  they  gave  him  to 
"  knock  under."  But  the  only  change 
noticeable  during  that  time  was  a  more 
decided  sullenness,  a  look  in  the  cold  gray 
eyes  that  meant  death  rather  than  yield- 
ing. 


A  Grain  of  Gold  255 

Once  the  soft-voiced  young  man  who 
had  put  out  his  hand  in  his  defence  the 
day  of  his  arrival  at  the  stockade,  and  had 
afterwards  called  him  "  friend,"  the  only 
time  he  had  ever  heard  the  word  addressed 
to  himself,  once  the  young  man  came  over 
where  Jim  sat  cleaning  the  warden's  boots, 
and  motioned  him. 

Jim  shook  his  head,  and  went  on  black- 
ing the  big  boots.  But  when  the  young 
convict  drew  nearer,  and  tried  to  take  his 
hand,  he  drew  back,  and  struck  at  him 
viciously  with  the  blacking-brush. 

"  Git  out,  will  you  !  And  don't  come 
a-fooling  with  this  brush,  lest  you  want 
your  d — n  head  broke." 

He  had  seen  a  guard  spying  upon  them 
at  a  half  open  door  in  the  rear  of  the  young 
convict.  At  Jim's  outburst  of  temper  the 
guard  entered. 

"  Come  away  from  him,  Solly,"  he  said. 
"The  surly  beast  is  as  like  as  not  to  knock 
your  brains  out." 

The  convict  turned  to  obey,  but  the 


256  A  Grain  of  Gold 

glance  he  got  of  Jim's  face  carried  a  full 
explanation.  The  temper  was  affected  to 
keep  down  suspicion.  After  that  came 
the  punishment  at  the  pump,  the  merciless 
beating,  and  then,  all  things  proving  un- 
availing, he  was  put  in  the  dungeon  to 
have  the  "  truth  starved  out  of  him." 

After  three  days  he  was  brought  out, 
faint,  pale,  ready  to  die  at  every  step,  but 
with  that  same  immovable  something  shin- 
ing in  his  eyes,  and  his  lips  still  set  in  the 
old  way  that  he  had  of  his  mother. 

His  hands  were  manacled,  and  an  iron 
chain  clanked  about  his  feet  as  he  dragged 
them  wearily  one  after  the  other.  For 
three  days  he  had  tasted  no  food,  except  a 
rat  that  he  had  caught  in  the  dungeon. 
He  ate  it  raw,  like  a  dog,  and  searched 
eagerly  for  another.  Just  as  he  had  found 
it,  and  skinned  it  with  the  help  of  his 
teeth,  the  guard  peered  through  the  grat- 
ing, and  seeing  what  he  was  doing,  entered 
and  put  the  handcuffs  upon  him,  after  first 
removing  the  raw  flesh  to  a  point  where 


A  Grain  of  Gold  257 

he  could  see,  but  not  touch  it.  And  there 
it  lay,  torturing  him  while  he  starved.  And 
there  it  lay  until  it  became  carrion,  and  tor- 
tured him  again.  And  then  they  had 
dragged  him  out  again;  out  under  the 
blue  sky,  where  the  trees — the  old  sweet- 
smelling  pines  —  were  waving  their  purple 
plumes  upon  the  distant  mountains,  and 
the  wild  grape  filled  the  air  with  perfume, 
and  the  wild  roses  were  pink  as  child- 
hood's sweet,  young  dreams,  and  over  all 
was  bending  the  blue  heaven.  And  heaven 
spread  before  him,  heaven;  behind  him  lay 
hell,  fifteen  years  of  it  less  one.  And  they 
gave  him  choice  again  betwixt  the  two. 
They  even  crammed  a  bit  of  moral  in  the 
offer.  "  It  was  right,"  they  said,  "to  tell 
on  those  who  had  broken  the  prison  reg- 
ulations ;  mere  justice  to  the  lessees." 
Right !  too  late  to  talk  to  him  of  right. 
He  glanced  once  at  the  pines,  going  far- 
ther away,  whiffed  at  the  pleasant  odour 
of  the  grapes,  waved  his  hand  to  the  roses, 
in  farewell,  perhaps,  lifted  his  face  to 


258  A  Grain  of  Gold 

the  blue  heaven,  —  he  had  never  looked 
heavenward  before  in  all  his  wretched 
years,  —  then,  wearing  that  same  old  look 
of  his  mother's,  he  turned,  without  a 
word,  and  reentered  the  prison. 

Back  to  the  pump,  the  lash,  and  at  last 
to  the  dungeon. 

But  he  no  longer  dreaded  it.  It  was 
the  Sabbath,  and  the  shackles  had  been 
removed,  but  he  was  too  weary  to  notice 
the  rat  that  came  out  and  sat  peering  at 
him,  nibbling  at  his  wet  prison  clothes, 
and  his  feet  and  hands.  Even  the  carrion 
did  not  disturb  any  more.  The  scent  of 
the  wild  grape  blooms  was  still  in  his  nos- 
trils. And  when  the  day  wore  on,  and 
the  two  o'clock  bell  sounded,  calling  the 
men  to  Sunday  school,  he  started  up  with 
a  cry  of  "  Here."  He  had  thought  the 
bell  a  voice  at  the  dungeon  door,  and 
fancied  that  it  said,  "  Friend." 

He  dropped  back,  with  a  smile  on  his 
lips.  Could  old  Nance  have  peered  in  at 
that  moment  she  would  have  pronounced 


A  Grain  of  Gold  259 

him  very  like  his  mother  with  that  smile, 
and  that  stanch  old  heroism  shining  in  his 
wide,  dead  eyes. 

Down  in  the  office  the  registrar  entered 
upon  the  death  list : 

"  James  Royal  —  Natural  death." 

Natural  ?  Then  God  help  the  unnat- 
ural. 

"  The  worst  one  ever  fell  into  our 
hands,"  the  warden  told  the  minister  as 
he  came  out  of  the  chapel  with  the  soft- 
voiced  friend  of  the  dead  man's.  "  Not  a 
spark  of  good  in  him,  parson.  Jim  Royal 
knocks  your  theory  all  to  pieces." 

But  the  friend  had  been  telling  the  min- 
ister a  story.  And  as  he  passed  out  at  the 
rattling  stockade  gate,  he,  too,  glanced  up 
at  the  blue  sky.  His  doubts  were  gone, 
if  there  had  been  any ;  his  faith  was 
planted  in  God's  eternal  goodness. 

"  Can  such  die  ?  "  he  mused  ;  "  such 
faithfulness,  such  magnificent  courage, 
such  glorious  fidelity  ?  Is  it  possible  that 


260  A  Grain  of  Gold 

such  can  pass  away  into  eternal  tor- 
ment ? " 

The  soft  wind  touched  his  cheek  and 
bore  heavenward  the  prayer  he  breathed : 

"  Forbid  it,  Almighty  God." 


A  Day  in  Asia 


IT  was  a  great  day  in  Asia,  —  a  gala 
day,  some  would  have  said,  —  for  al- 
though the  occasion  was  a  religious  one, 
it  was  not  without  its  tinsel,  its  dash  of 
jollity,  and  its  flash  of  fashion.  It  was  the 
day  of  the  great  annual  foot-  washing  of 
the  coloured  Baptists,  —  "de  Hard-shells, 
honey,  ez  some  names  de  {  Hard-sides,' 
an'  den,  agin,  some  names  de  ole  f  Pri- 
munters.'  ' 

Once  a  year  it  comes,  —  the  "big 
meet'n',"  that  is  always  held  in  Asia, 
the  little  negro  settlement  on  the  banks 
of  the  Elk,  that  creeps  along  with  noise- 
less content  among  the  foothills  of  the 

Cumberlands.      A    foot-washing,  —  why, 
261 


262  A  Day  in  Asia 

heaven  itself  has  built  the  basin,  and  set  it 
flowing,  fresh,  fair,  and  free.  Surely  the 
rivers  of  Tennessee  —  are  they  not  better 
than  all  the  tubs  of  Asia  ?  Might  they 
not  wash  in  them  and  be  clean  ? 

By  sunup  the  hordes  were  on  the  way. 
They  came  by  horse,  by  foot,  and  by 
great  wagon-loads,  —  each  with  a  basket, 
each  wearing  his  holiday  dress,  and  each 
with  soul  brimful,  running  over,  breaking 
out,  with  religion. 

The  breaking  out  assumed  a  varied  form. 
Sometimes  it  was  a  loud  laugh,  at  a  mo- 
ment when  all  was  still ;  sometimes  a  deep 
groan  as  a  solitary  horseman  passed  a 
wagon-load  of  worshippers  ;  sometimes  it 
became  a  shriek,  a  cry  of  "  Glory  !  glory  ! 
my  soul's  happy,  en  I  wanter  go  home ; " 
again  it  was  a  fervent  "Amen!"  and  again 
a  knowing  "  Hmk-umk  !  "  sometimes  it 
was  a  quiet  interchange  of  "  news," 
friendly  gossip,  as  two  wagons  came  in 
speaking  distance ;  and  sometimes  it  took 
the  form  of  a  lively,  if  brief,  little  fight  in 


A  Day  in  Asia  263 

a  wagon  where  two  women  wrangled  over 
their  respective  titles  to  one  escort.  The 
fight  must,  however,  have  been  tinctured 
with  religious  fervour;  for  at  the  close 
of  each  bout  the  combatants  closed  their 
eyes,  adjusted  anew  their  mutilated  finery, 
and,  swaying  back  and  forth  with  the 
rocking  of  the  wagon,  began  to  sing, — 
sometimes  together  with  the  same  tune, 
sometimes  in  solo,  and  sometimes  each  with 
her  own  preferred  hymn,  and  each  trying 
to  out-sing  the  other.  The  favourite 
melody,  however,  and  drawn  out  with 
that  long,  fervent,  not  unmusical  drawl 
that  is  peculiar  to  the  negro,  was  one 
in  which  all  the  inmates  of  the  wagon 
joined,  and  even  the  passing  horsemen 
now  and  then  lent  their  voices  to  swell 
the  chorus : 

"  Ez  I  wen'  down  in  de  valley  ter  pray, 

Glory  !  Glory  !  Glory  ! 
Steddyin'  about  dat  good  ole  way, 

Glory  !  Glory  !  Glory  ! 
Marse  Jesus,  he  come  erlong  dat  day, 

Glory  !  Glory  !  Glory  ! 


264  A  Day  in  Asia 


CHORUS. 


"  Lawd,  who's  gwine  ter  w'ar  dat  stairry  crown, 
Lawd,  who's  gwine  ter  w'ar  dat  stairry  crown, 
Lawd,  who's  gwine  ter  w'ar  dat  stairry  crown, 
Ter  meet  my  Jesus  in  de  Glory  ? 

"  Whar  I  wen'  down  ter  wras'le  en  pray, 

Glory  !   Glory  !  Glory  ! 
Marse  Jesus,  he  come  erlong  dat  day, 

Glory  !  Glory  !   Glory  ! 
A-p'intin'  out  dat  good  ole  way, 
Glory!  Glory!   Glory!" 

The  song  rose  and  fell,  reverberating 
with  peculiar  sweetness  among  the  hills  at 
times,  at  times  jarring  inharmoniously,  as 
some  twangy  treble  strove  to  reach  a  tone 
above  the  voices  of  the  others.  Some- 
times it  was  as  if  the  very  heart  of  nature 
stood  still  to  listen ;  sometimes  a  fox, 
secure  in  the  distance,  barked  a  rejoinder 
from  the  river  bluffs  far  below  the  wind- 
ing road  to  Asia,  or  a  blue  jay,  with  sacri- 
legious impertinence,  sent  back  a  note  of 
contempt  in  response  to  the  hymn  as  the 
wagons  passed  under  his  nesting-place. 


A  Day  in  Asia  265 

Once,  only,  however,  was  there  any  se- 
rious opposition  offered ;  this  was  in  the 
case  of  a  diminutive  yellow  fise  that  ran 
out  from  a  farmyard,  and  with  shrill  and 
vigorous  barking,  elevated  tail  and  ears, 
vociferously  disputed  the  right  of  way  to 
Asia. 

Despite  the  protestations  of  the  fise, 
however,  Asia  was  expecting  her  guests. 
Every  door  stood  wide  open,  as  if  Hospi- 
tality had  stepped  outside  to  meet  half 
way  the  visitors.  The  houses  were  tiny 
cabins,  neatly  whitewashed  and  carefully 
adorned  with  vines  of  every  creeping 
kind. 

A  little  garden  spot  was  basking  in  the 
sunlight  about  every  door,  and,  being  too 
early  in  the  season  for  vegetables,  the  gar- 
dens did  duty  as  ornament.  There  were 
tulips  and  phlox  and  petunias,  lady  pease 
in  full  bloom,  cymlings  with  yellow  blos- 
soms, peeping  slyly  at  the  bolder  colour- 
ing of  its  neighbour  and  kinsman,  the 
gourd.  A  pretty  scene,  and  flanked  by  a 


266  A  Day  in  Asia 

still  prettier,  where  the  mountains  lifted 
their  craggy  summits  to  the  clouds,  purple 
with  the  haze  of  distance.  Nearer  the 
pines  were  waving  their  long  arms  to 
the  river,  the  gentle  Elk,  nestled  among 
the  laurel-crowned  bluffs. 

A  good  day  for  worship ;  such  a  day  as 
might  have  charmed  the  Druids  to  their 
temples,  or,  indeed,  made  all  the  world 
turn  Druid  and  worship  likewise  in  the 
groves. 

Most  of  the  cabins  were  empty,  their 
owners  gone  down  the  road  to  meet  ex- 
pected friends. 

No  fear  of  thieves  to-day ;  the  rogues 
would  all  be  at  "  meet'n'."  "  Be  dar  long 
ob  de  balunce  ob  de  Chrischuns,"  the 
Widow  Brown  declared,  as  she  spread  her 
table,  before  leaving  for  the  little  "  meet'n'- 
house  "  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  beyond  the 
river. 

The  widow  was  a  pillar  of  the  church  in 
Asia.  She  was  "  well  off,"  too,  so  far  as 
this  world's  goods  were  concerned.  And 


A  Day  in  Asia  267 

she  was  a  "  good  liver,"  a  rarely  "  good 
feeder,"  —  a  something  unusual  among 
the  coloured  race,  who  work  well,  cook 
well  and  carefully  for  their  white  em- 
ployers, but  who  do  their  own  work  with 
a  half-hearted,  unwholesome  disregard  of 
both  health  and  comfort. 

The  Widow  Brown  lived  well ;  every- 
body in  Asia  knew  her  cooking.  And 
even  among  the  visitors  many  a  hope  was 
harboured  that  the  widow  would  "  ax  me 
ter  fetch  my  baskit  ter  her  house." 

She  had  her  own  plans,  however.  She 
had  sent  out  no  invitations  for  that  day, 
although  the  dinner-table,  when  the  "good 
liver"  stood  back  to  admire  it,  might  have 
fed  all  Asia.  She  meant  to  have  one  guest, 
and  but  one.  She  had  even  sent  her 
children  over  to  Winchester  the  day  be- 
fore, on  a  visit  to  their  gran -pap,  in  order 
to  have  a  clear  field  and  a  day  without 
interruption. 

She  had  put  the  last  touch  to  the  big 
pound  cake  when  she  caught  sight  of  a 


268  A  Day  in  Asia 

stumpy  gray  tail  in  the  sumach  thicket  in 
the  rear  of  the  church,  where  the  preacher 
always  hitched  his  mule. 

The  preacher  is  the  idol,  the  good  God 
in  human  form,  of  his  members.  The 
Widow  Brown  was  not  the  only  one  of 
his  flock  who  had  been  watching  for  the 
switch  of  that  gray  mule's  tail  in  the 
sumach  thicket. 

She  was  the  first  to  get  there,  however, 
and  she  was  blissfully  ignorant  that  "  lill' 
Sis  Moore,"  the  young  mulattress  who 
lived  "a  piece  up  de  road,  on  de  side 
todes  de  mount'n,"  had  run  down  the 
road,  at  her  mother's  request,  to  speak  to 
the  parson  as  he  went  by. 

The  widow  found  him  beside  his 
mule, —  the  Reverend  Benjamin  Franklin 
George  Washington  Henderson,  —  fat, 
fifty,  and  well  fed  by  the  members  of  the 
respective  churches  under  his  charge.  She 
was^r-r/,  evidently,  to  greet  the  mogul. 

"  How  you  does,  Brudder  Hen'son  ?  " 
she  began. 


A  Day  in  Asia  269 

"  I's  toler'ble,"  said  the  brother. 

"  How's  yo  folks  does,  Brudder  Hen'- 
son?" 

"  Dey's  toler'ble." 

"  Yo  ma  well,  Brudder  Hen'son  ?  " 

«  She's  toler'ble." 

"  You  well,  Brudder  Hen'son  ?  " 

"  I's  toler'ble.  How's  you,  Siste' 
Brown  ? " 

"  I's  toler'ble." 

"Yo  folks  well?" 

"  Dey's  toler'ble.  You  come  t'  my 
house  ter  dinner,  Brudder  Hen'son.  I 
got  nice  lill'  bar'bcue  shoat  fur  dinner 
ter-day." 

The  reverend  gentleman  chuckled. 

"  Lill'  Sis  Moore  done  ax  me  ter  dinner 
wid  dey-alls." 

The  widow's  face  wore  for  an  instant 
a  mingled  expression  of  doubt,  disap- 
pointment, and  good-natured  determina- 
tion. 

"  Dat  lill'  heifer  ?  "  She  laughed  aloud. 
"  She  ain'  no  han'  ter  cook  vittuls.  You 


270  A  Day  in  Asia 

come  t'  my  house,  Brudder  Hen'son ; 
dat's  de  fattes  lilP  peeg  yo  eber  sot  yer 
teef  in,  /  tell  ye." 

Alas  for  the  widow  !  The  bright  young 
face  of  "  Liir  Sis  "  had  raised  a  tumult  in 
the  reverend  old  heart.  Other  things 
than  juicy  pigs  and  pound  cake  swayed 
the  holy  man  to-day  and  controlled  his 
movements. 

"  Her  say  dey-all's  peeg  more  fatter  en 
your'n,"  laughed  the  parson. 

At  this  the  widow  showed  fight.  She 
would  not  have  her  cooking  slandered ; 
not  at  all, 

"Sis  Moore's  mouf  ain't  no  pra'r  book," 
she  declared;  "en  no  dicshuner,  neider,  ef 
it  do  op'n  en  shet.  I  knock  her  teef  down 
her  thoat  she  say  dat.  You  tek  dinner  at 
my  house,  Brudder  Hen'son.  De  good 
book  say  yer  boun'  ter  kep  keer  ob  de 
widder  en  de  orf'n,  Brudder  Hen'son. 
Hit  doan  sey  noth'n'  bout  young  gals  ez 
runs  roun'  arter  folks  ter  eat  dey  peegs 
up.  I's  de  widder  woman  de  Bible  tells 


A  Day  in  Asia  271 

'bout,  I  is.  You  be  sho'  ter  come  ter  my 
house,  Brudder  Hen'son  !  " 

The  arrival  of  others  cut  short  all  fur- 
ther conversation.  The  widow  consoled 
herself  that  her  cause  was  not  hopeless. 

"  Dat  peeg'll  tetch  up  his  'mem'bunce 
all  dis  day,"  she  told  herself. 

Everybody  made  it  a  point  to  seek  out 
the  preacher.  Soon  such  a  crowd  had  col- 
lected about  the  reverend  gentleman  that 
the  widow  moved  off,  to  mingle  with  the 
visitors  who  were  come  to  worship  in  Asia. 

There  was  aunt  Ellen,  the  conjure 
woman,  who  could  charm  away  warts 
and  lift  spells,  —  a  shining  light  among 
the  Hardshells,  alias  Hardsides,  alias 
"  Primunters." 

And  there  was  "  old  Jinny,"  who  had  a 
habit  of  talking  to  herself;  a  habit  known 
among  her  class  as  "  talkin'  wid  de  ole 
boy,"  for  it  is  a  belief  with  them  that  to 
talk  to  one's  self  is  to  talk  with  the  devil. 

Then  there  was  "  Lean  Jim,"  the  rag 
buyer.  Other  things  than  rags  had  been 


272  A  Day  in  Asia 

found  in  Jim's  sack,  often.  But  nobody 
charged  Jim  with  that  "at  meet'n'." 
Moreover,  Jim  had  long  ago  explained 
how  these  things  happened.  They  hap- 
pened in  Benjamin's  day,  too,  he  declared, 
and  in  Benjamin's  sack. 

"  'Count  o'  bein'  put  dar  fur  ter  bring 
reproach  upon  de  Chrischuns.  Dar's  lots 
o'  meanness  in  dis  worl',  honey,  lots  en 
lots  ob  it." 

So  Jim  argued  in  setting  himself  straight 
with  the  church.  At  Asia  Jim  occupied 
the  right-hand  amen  corner,  and  led  in  the 
foot-washing. 

Then  there  was  among  the  celebrities  in 
Asia,  that  last  foot-washing  day,  May,  first 
Sunday,  year  eighteen  hundred  ninety-two, 
aunt  Milly,  "  de  oldes'  'oman  in  de  worl', 
honey." 

Too  old,  indeed,  to  care  for  or  to  desire 
any  other  name  than  simple  "  aunt 
Milly."  As  to  age,  the  negro  has  a 
peculiar  idea.  Ask  aunt  Milly,  for  in- 
stance, "How  old  are  you,  aunt  Milly?" 


A  Day  in  Asia  273 

"  Lor,  honey,  I  done  furgit,  long  'go. 
I  been  here  long  time,  —  mighty  long 
time.  I  spec'  I  been  here  twenty  year, 
might  nigh." 

And  near  aunt  Milly,  calmly  sedate, 
"jes  wait'n  fur  de  trumpit,"  sat  aunt 
Winnie,  another  of  the  old-timers.  Her 
ideas  of  time  are  as  vague  as  those  of  the 
old  woman  at  her  side.  She  has  spent  her 
life  puzzling  over  her  age.  "  Ole  marse 
died  fo'  I  uz  ole  nuff  ter  want  ter  know," 
she  was  wont  to  declare.  "  Den  ole  miss, 
her  died  too,  an'  nuver  telled.  En  dey 
ain'  nobody  else  ter  ax.  But  I's  mos'  two 
hundred,  I  reckin.  I  sho'  am,  —  fur  I 
wuz  here  fo'  de  war,  chile.  Dat  I  wuz. 
I's  boun'  ter  be  nigh  two  hundred." 

Of  a  truth  she  was  about  forty-five ; 
while  aunt  Milly,  "  mos'  twenty,"  was 
long  past  the  seventieth  mile-post. 

Another  distinguished  worshipper  in 
Asia  was  "  Short  Ann,"  the  stumpy  little 
old  woman  who  "  made  soap  fur  de  whole 
country." 


274  A  Day  in  Asia 

"  Don'  mek  it  tweel  de  moon  gits  right, 
ef  yer  please.  En  fur  de  Lord's  sake 
don't  cep'  one  ob  de  family  stir  hit.  Hit 
won't  jelly  ef  two  stirs  de  kittle ;  hit  sho' 
won't." 

Uncle  Sam,  the  witch-ridden,  was  there, 
too,  assisting  in  the  services.  "  He  say 
de  witches  rid  him  agin  las'  night,  en  he 
got  a  wire  roun'  'is  neck  fur  ter  keep  'em 
off." 

So  the  good  sisters  told  each  other 
while  they  waited  at  the  church  door  for 
Yellow  Jane,  the  fortune-teller,  who  was 
crossing  the  foot-log  with  "lill'  Jack,"  her 
boy,  who  had  been  conjured  "  so's  he  los' 
growth,"  held  in  the  hollow  of  her  side, 
just  above  the  right  hip.  All  come  to 
meet'n,  —  all  come  to  worship  together. 
Witch  and  wizard,  saint  and  sinner,  old 
and  young,  the  halt  and  the  whole,  the 
ignorant  and  superstitious,  the  rogue,  the 
honest  man,  the  gay  and  thoughtless, 
the  old  and  careful,  all  Christians,  all 
brothers  for  that  one  day,  all  of  one  nature 


A  Day  in  Asia  275 

at  last:  a  nature  that  laughs  at  poverty, 
shakes  its  fist  in  the  face  of  want,  and  sings 
over  the  corpse  of  morality  as  lustily  as 
over  the  washtub  of  a  day  in  June,  —  an 
emotional  nature,  touched  to  despair  by 
grief  and  ready  to  break  into  shouting 
before  the  presence  of  joy,  —  all  one  in 
that  Asia  day. 

Such  a  day !  Asia  had  never  felt  a 
fairer.  The  worshippers  were  loath  to 
leave  the  sunlight,  the  ride,  the  gay  little 
street  of  the  village,  where  they  wandered 
about,  with  gossip  and  friendly  greeting. 

They  were  all  brethren  for  one  day.  All 
the  burdens  of  life  were  laid  down,  thrown 
off;  all  the  rest  of  the  year  they  might 
toil,  suffer,  battle  with  poverty  and  pain, 
but  this  day,  this  one  day,  —  ah,  it  was  so 
much  snatched  from  life  !  —  this  their  one 
day  in  Asia. 

The  service  of  the  morning  was  to  begin 
at  ten  o'clock.  At  half-past  nine  the  wor- 
shippers had  begun  to  move  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  church,  not  knowing  they  were 


ij6  A  Day  in  Asia 

sorry  to  give  up  the  sunshine  and  the 
gossip. 

At  ten  they  were  all  in,  seated  deco- 
rously in  their  places,  their  hearts  full  of 
warmth,  their  tongues  tuned  for  praise. 

The  preacher  rose  ;  he  was  a  poor  man, 
a  widower,  and  one  not  too  often  surfeited 
with  the  good  things  of  this  world.  If 
visions  of  roasted  pig,  savoury  odours  of 
vinegar  and  spice,  and  crisping  bacon 
mingled  with  his  devotions,  the  devotees 
of  Asia  were  in  blissful  ignorance  of  their 
pastor's  wanderings.  He  arose  with  his 
accustomed  dignity,  a  hymn-book,  held 
bottom  up,  in  his  hand. 

"  Brudderin,"  he  began,  "  you  will 
please  to  sing  the  hymn  on  de  page  — " 
he  paused.  Through  the  wide  open  door 
a  spectacle  was  presented  which  held  his 
ecclesiastical  gaze  until  the  whole  congre- 
gation turned  to  see  what  it  might  be  that 
had  attracted  him. 

The  widow's  little  pig  might  simmer  in 
its  own  bastings ;  far  better  a  dinner  of 


A  Day  in  Asia  277 

herbs  where  love  is,  than  the  fatted  porker 
of  the  unloved  member. 

Down  the  little  foot-path  through  the 
red-oak  woods  tripped  a  lithe,  graceful  fig- 
ure of  a  young  girl.  Boldly,  daringly  gor- 
geous through  the  cool  greens  of  the  forest 
shone  her  attire,  like  the  plumage  of  some 
brilliant  bird.  At  first  a  dash  of  crimson, 
a  flash  of  gay  blue  and  filmy  white,  then 
came  the  full  figure,  in  all  its  splendour, 
of  little  Sis  Moore,  the  belle  of  Asia. 

She  wore  a  skirt  of  bright  crimson, 
gaily  festooned  with  lace,  a  cheap  white 
cotton  pattern,  valued  for  its  effect  rather 
than  its  quality ;  a  jacket  of  cheap  blue 
silk,  caught  at  the  slender  waist  with  a 
large  rosette  of  blue  ribbon  and  lace ; 
a  hat  of  coarse  white  straw,  the  whole 
scarcely  larger  than  a  bird's  nest,  with  a 
cluster  of  large  red  roses  planted  tip-top 
the  crown,  and  a  fall  of  lace  around  the 
brim,  making  a  rare  setting  for  the  bright, 
coquettish  face  beneath.  She  wore  slip- 
pers, too,  and  red  stockings.  And,  mighty 


270  A  Day  in  Asia 

straw  to  wreck  the  strained  camel's  back, 
above  the  giddy,  girlish  head,  a  crimson 
parasol  flashed  before  the  dazzled  eyes  of 
the  worshippers,  and  the  belle  of  Asia 
came  down  the  path,  lifted  her  skirts 
above  the  red-hosed  ankle,  tripped  dain- 
tily over  the  foot-log,  —  the  river  was 
narrow  at  this  point,  —  and  deposited  her 
finery  in  the  very  door  of  the  meeting- 
house. 

The  parson,  heavy  and  clumsy,  was 
prepared  to  appreciate  grace  and  nimble- 
ness.  He  saw  the  apparition,  the  study 
in  red,  white,  and  blue ;  and  his  reverend 
old  heart  gave  a  bound  that  struck  him 
for  the  moment  dumb. 

The  Widow  Brown  saw,  too,  and  the 
sight,  from  a  different  cause,  produced  a 
like  effect.  She  broke  off  in  her  singing 
to  express  herself  unto  herself: 

"Look  at  dat!  Look  et  dat !  Dat 
yaller  nigger  think  she  mighty  fine,  / 
reckin,  becase  she  tuk  de  cake  et  de 
walkin'  last  night.  Nice  way  ter  glorify 


A  Day  in  Asia  279 

de  Lawd.  Ef  I  gits  my  ban's  on  dem 
eyes,  I  ull  scratch  de  brazenness  out'n 
dem.  I  ull  bus'  her  wide  op'n  ef  I  gits 
my  han's  on  her,  de  low-live  triflin' 
hussy,  — 

"  '  Marse  Jesus  he  come  erlong  dat  way, 
Glory!  Glory!  Glory!'  " 

And  the  Widow  Brown  went  bravely 
on  with  her  devotions. 

During  the  prayer,  however,  the  widow 
became  possessed  of  a  desire  to  peep  at 
the  parson.  "  Hit's  de  debbul  temptin' 
ob  me,  I  knows,"  she  told  herself;  and 
stooping  a  trifle  lower  upon  her  knees, 
she  managed  to  look  between  the  bowed 
heads  about  her,  straight  at  the  parson. 
He  was  kneeling,  his  hand  before  his  face, 
"  fairly  wras'lin'  in  pra'r."  Suddenly  the 
fat  fingers  parted,  just  where  they  had 
met  before  the  parson's  left  eye,  and  the 
Widow  Brown  groaned  her  contempt  to 
see  him,  in  the  very  agonies  of  prayer, 
steal  a  glance  at  the  successful  cake  win- 


280  A  Day  in  Asia 

ner,  the  prize  walker,  Sis,  the  belle  of 
Asia. 

"  Dat  hussy !"  But  for  the  "  Amens," 
and  "Yes,  Lords,"  and  "  Dar  nows ! " 
and  "  Hmk-umks  !  "  that  were  ascend- 
ing and  descending  in  a  hundred  different 
sharps  and  flats,  the  widow's  wrathful  out- 
break might  have  reached  the  very  ears 
of  the  parson  himself. 

"  Dat  hussy  !  Ought  ter  be  chuched ; 
bofe  ob  'em  ought  ter  be  chuched ;  ain' 
no  'ligion  in  such  doin's." 

Just  then  uncle  Zack,  the  water-witch, 
took  up  the  prayer  where  the  preacher 
left  off. 

"  Good  Lawd,"  he  began,  "  we's  all 
bent  en  boun'  fur  de  kingdom  —  " 

"  Amen  !  "  said  the  widow.  "  Bless  de 
Lawd !  Dat's  de  Gord's  troof.  Bent 
en  boun'  fur  de  prommus  Ian'.  Glory ! 
glory !  My  soul's  happy,  en  I  wan'  ter 
go  home." 

The  "  happiness "  was  evidently  con- 
tagious, for  in  three  minutes  after  the 


A  Day  in  Asia  281 

widow's  outbreak  the  entire  congregation, 
men,  women,  and  children,  had  raised  a 
shout.  Every  soul  was  "  happy  ;  "  every 
soul  "wanted  to  go  home"  —  all  except 
the  girl  sitting  demurely  on  the  second 
seat  from  the  front,  —  the  girl,  Sis.  She 
had  been  to  school  at  Winchester,  the 
county  town,  and  had  "  learned  better," 
she  declared. 

"  L'arned  de  debbul,"  the  Widow 
Brown  said.  "  Done  gone  en  got  above 
everybody,  en  de  gospil,  its  own  se'f.  Be 
ter  big  fur  de  kingdom  come,  I  reckin, 
wid  her  fine  clothes  en  her  book  readin's. 
L'arned  to  be  'bove  foot-washin's  en 
shoutin',  en  gloryin'  in  de  Lawd ! " 

"  No,"  the  girl  had  replied  to  the 
charge.  "  I  learned  when's  the  proper 
time  to  wash  yer  feet,  an'  it  be  Sadday 
night." 

So  she  took  no  part  in  the  great  annual 
event.  More  than  one  of  the  younger 
members  would  have  liked  to  follow  the 
lead  of  the  pretty  little  heretic  who  had 


282  A  Day  in  Asia 

with  her  own  hand  sowed  the  first  seed  of 
doubt  in  that  little  assembly,  —  a  seed 
that  was  destined  to  spring  up ;  to  yield 
ten,  fifty,  and  an  hundre'd  fold. 

She  saw  the  benches  moved  back  into 
four  long  rows,  —  two  confronting  each 
other  on  one  side  of  the  house,  and  two 
on  the  other;  the  left  hand  for  the  sisters, 
the  right  for  the  brethren.  She  saw  the 
minister  gird  himself  with  a  towel,  a  per- 
formance immediately  followed  by  the 
congregation.  She  alone  was  left  out ; 
had  no  part  with  them.  Yet  she  was 
smiling  when  Water-witch  Zack  and  Lean 
Jim,  the  rag  buyer,  came  in  bringing  each 
a  tin  pan  filled  with  water,  and  set  them, 
one  between  each  row  of  benches.  She 
saw  the  people  begin  to  remove  their 
shoes  and  stockings.  The  sisters  took 
their  places  opposite  each  other  on  the 
left  hand  benches ;  the  brethren  separated 
to  the  other  side.  Each  was  girded  with 
a  towel.  A  hymn  was  sung,  and  during 
the  singing  the  preacher  removed  his  shoes 


A  Day  in  Asia  283 

and  came  down  out  of  the  pulpit  to  take  a 
chair  that  had  been  set  for  him. 

Lean  Jim  met  him  there  with  a  tin 
basin,  and  he  plunged  his  bare  feet  into 
it.  Jim  knelt  upon  one  knee  and  took 
them,  one  foot  at  a  time,  between  his 
palms,  rubbed  them  gently,  wiped  them 
with  the  towel  he  wore ;  and  then  ex- 
changing places  while  the  congregation 
sang,  Jim  put  bis  feet  into  the  basin,  and 
the  preacher  performed  the  humble  ser- 
vice for  him. 

Then  it  was  the  occupants  of  the  benches 
began.  Each  sister  washed,  and  dried, 
with  her  towel,  the  feet  of  the  sister  oppo- 
site, and  the  vessel  was  passed  on  to  the 
next,  the  singing  being  kept  up  by  those 
whose  turn  had  not  yet  come  and  those 
who  had  already  performed.  Among  the 
brethren  occupying  the  other  rows  of  seats 
a  similar  scene  was  enacted.  Midway  the 
two  lines  the  vessels  were  emptied  through 
two  convenient  boles  in  the  floor,  prepared 
for  that  purpose,  and  fresh  water  supplied. 


284  A  Day  in  Asia 

As  the  couples  completed  their  part  of  the 
service  they  withdrew,  and  others  were 
invited  to  "  come  forward  and  take  their 
places." 

The  preacher  could  not  read,  but  he 
explained  again  and  again,  as  the  occu- 
pants of  the  benches  changed,  that  "havin' 
girded  hisse'f  with  a  towel,  he  took  de 
cup,  en  give  thanks,  en  sed  tek  it  in  de 
mem'brince  ob  me."  A  hopeless  tangle 
of  two  institutions. 

It  was  well  into  the  afternoon  when  the 
service  ended.  There  had  been  three  ser- 
mons, much  singing,  and  a  continuance  in 
prayer  that  must  have  left  an  impression 
upon  many  knees,  at  all  events. 

Chief  among  the  worshippers  was  the 
Widow  Brown ;  and  when  the  service 
ended,  she  hung  back,  ostensibly  to  "shake 
hands  "  with  the  saints,  in  reality  to  offer 
a  last  invitation  to  the  parson. 

That  pig !  It  had  been  on  her  heart 
all  day.  So  indeed  had  the  "  yaller  gal." 
She  would  not  believe  the  preacher  really 


A  Day  in  Asia  285 

meant  to  set  her  aside  for  "  dat  lill'  mink 
in  her  raid  petticoat." 

"  I  'ud  jis'  lack  ter  see  her  git  up  a 
chuch  dinner  by  her  own  se'f,  lack  the 
parson's  'oman  got  ter  do.  Dis  her 
mammy's  dinner  she  done  axed  Brudder 
Hen'son  ter  eat.  She  can't  cook,  dat  lill' 
Sis,  She  kin  read  en  write,  en  dey-alls 
sey  she  gwine  teach  schul  bimeby.  Dat 
ain'  gwine  tek  de  place  ob  vittuls,  sho' 
'tain't.  She  too  young  fur  dat  man  any- 
hows ;  why,  he  done  berried  one  'oman, 
en  his  ma  keep'n  ob  his  chillen  fur  him." 

So  consoling  herself,  the  widow  waited. 
At  last  he  came  out,  hat  in  hand,  too  hur- 
ried to  stop,  and  too  much  interested  in  a 
vision  of  blue  and  red  disappearing  up  the 
path  through  the  red-oak  woods  to  notice 
the  member  of  his  flock  standing  alone 
beside  the  door.  He  merely  glanced  at 
the  retreating  colour,  and  set  out  at  a 
brisk  little  run  in  the  wake  of  "little 
Sis." 

The  Widow  Brown  watched  him  with 


286  A  Day  in  Asia 

feelings  of  mingled  emotion.  He  was  fat 
and  awkward. 

"  Ef  he  keep  up  dat  gait  he  am'  gwine 
cross  dat  foot-log,"  she  said ;  "  en  dat 
hussy  yonder !  Look  at  her !  Done 
turn  roun'  en  wait  fur  him.  Look!  look 
dar  now !  " 

The  parson  had  seen  the  girl  stop  and 
had  increased  his  speed.  He  reached  the 
foot-log  all  safe,  and,  without  a  moment's 
hesitation,  started  across,  with  the  daring 
of  an  athlete. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  swerve ;  one 
freshly  washed  foot  "  missed  its  hit ; " 
there  was  a  scramble,  a  reaching  out  of 
both  hands,  a  loud  shout  of  laughter  from 
the  widow,  and  something  from  the  par- 
son that  sounded  very  like  an  oath,  and 
then  Parson  Henderson  struck  the  log  — 
a-straddle.  There  was  a  low  titter  from 
neighbourhood  of  the  red  and  blue,  but 
the  parson  was  blissfully  ignorant  of  this. 

Distinct  enough,  however,  came  the 
voice  of  the  widow : 


A  Day  in  Asia  287 

"  Dar  now  !  Dar  now  !  Air?  yo  glad 
God  made  yer  forkid  ?  " 

The  next  moment  he  heard  her  singing, 
complacently  pious  as  ever,  as  she  went 
down  the  hill,  where  the  visitors  were 
spreading  their  dinners  under  the  trees,  to 
invite  Lean  Jim,  aunt  Winnie,  and  Zack, 
the  water-witch,  to  help  eat  the  pig  and 
pound  cake. 

"  En  I'll  meet  Marse  Jesus  in  de  Glory, 
Glory  !  Glory!  Glory!" 

She  was  still  laughing  over  the  preacher's 
mishap.  She  felt  repaid  for  all  her  disap- 
pointment. 


A  Humble  Advocate 


SUNRISE  in  Jones's  Cove.  The  great 
encompassing  mountains  stood  sol- 
emn and  weird  and  silent,  capped  with 
cloud  and  carpeted  with  everlasting  green 
about  their  feet  where  the  winter  scarce 
finds  an  entrance  into  the  well-screened 
cove  slumbering  among  their  rugged 
bases.  Winding  in  and  out  among  the 
gaps  and  crevices  of  the  mountains,  Big 
Pigeon  River  might  be  seen  fighting  its 
way  to  the  beautiful  French  Broad. 

The  sun  was  peeping  over  the  moun- 
tains, a  great  round,  red  eye  of  fire.  The 
cove  still  lay  in  shadow  and  in  silence. 
It  might  have  been  a  dead  world,  indeed, 
for  all  sign  there  was  of  life,  save  for  the 
288 


A  Humble  Advocate  289 

one  lone  figure  leaning  upon  the  low  pal- 
ings of  the  rude  gate  in  front  of  a  little 
weather-beaten  cabin  standing  at  the 
Cove's  head,  just  at  the  point  where  the 
road  begins  the  ascent  of  the  mountain. 

As  for  the  woman,  she,  too,  might  have 
been  a  part  of  the  deadness,  as  she  stood 
there  with  one  small,  knotted  labour- 
marked  hand  clasping  the  paling,  the 
elbow  of  the  other  arm  resting  upon  it, 
her  chin  in  her  hand,  and  her  bright, 
brown  eyes  fixed  in  melancholy  musing 
upon  the  distant  peaks  of  mountain  rising 
above  the  valley.  Only,  looking  well 
into  the  face,  one  could  not  fail  to  see  the 
fire  that  still  hid  in  the  dark  eyes,  like  a 
slumbering  coal-bed  that  waited  only  the 
revivifying  breath  of  excitement  to  fan  it 
into  a  living  glow. 

Within  the  cabin  a  man  lay  sleeping 
upon  a  bed  over  which  was  thrown  a  quilt 
of  many-coloured  stripes.  Two  burly,  calf- 
skin-covered feet  depended  floorward  be- 
neath the  coverlet,  and  the  arm,  thrown 


290  A  Humble  Advocate 

with  the  careless  abandon  of  the  weary 
sleeper  over  the  man's  head,  wore  a  sleeve 
of  heavy  gray  jeans.  Evidently  he  had 
thrown  himself  down  to  sleep  without  un- 
dressing. Upon  a  low  trundle-bed  at  his 
side  a  boy  of  six  years  and  a  baby  of  one 
were  sleeping.  The  woman  at  the  gate 
was  waiting  for  the  man  to  awaken  and  eat 
his  breakfast.  It  was  already  cooked,  and 
was  only  waiting  the  pleasure  of  the  liquor- 
sodden  sleeper  before  the  woman  would 
bring  it  out  from  the  skillets  and  pots 
ranged  about  the  hearth,  where  she  had 
set  it  to  prevent  the  food  getting  "  stone 
cole "  before  he  should  sober  up  suffi- 
ciently to  call  for  it. 

It  was  a  dreary  life,  a  cat-and-dog  exis- 
tence for  her,  the  silent  young  watcher  at 
the  gate. 

"  Ef  I  could  only  get  my  own  cornsent 
ter  hold  my  tongue  I  reckin  it  would  be 
better,"  she  mused.  "  But  pears  like  I'd 
be  obleeged  ter  die  sometimes  ef  I  didn't 
try  ter  head  Ike  Gary  off  in  some  o' 


A  Humble  Advocate  291 

his  doin's.  'Special  when  he  begins  ter 
hender  the  chillen ;  the  pore  little  chillen 
as  can't  holp  the'rse'ves  in  noways.  I  jest 
can't  be  still  then  ;  I  be  obleeged  ter  fight 
far  my  chillen.  Even  the  old  hen  out 
thar'll  do  that  much  fur  her  young ;  or 
the  wil'  varmints  in  the  woods.  I  can't 
git  my  own  cornsent  ter  be  less  keerful  o' 
my  young  than  the  hens  an'  the  b'ars  an' 
sech." 

It  wasn't  an  unpleasant  face  that  was 
lifted  for  a  moment  to  the  sunlight 
stealthily  creeping  over  the  mountains ; 
it  showed  resolve,  spirit,  and  a  courage 
that  death  itself  could  not  put  to  shame. 

"  I  hev  sarved  that  thar  man  in  thar 
ten  year,  good  an'  faithful.  I  didn't  come 
ter  him  em'ty-handed  nuther.  I  had  a 
hundred  head  o'  cattle  an  a  half  a  hundred 
acres  o'  valley  Ian'.  An'  I  ware  not  ac- 
counted a  bad-lookin'  gal  nuther,  them 
days.  But  the  law  allowed  as  Ike  Gary 
could  keep  my  Ian*  an'  truck  more  better 
nor  me,  an'  so  it  ware  his'n  after  I  ware 


292  A  Humble  Advocate 

married  ter  him.  Whose  it  air  now  I  can't 
tell.  The  still-house  got  it  o'  Ike,  I  know 
that  much.  They-uns  useter  say,  too, 
over  yander  in  Elmiry  whar  I  ware  raised, 
that  I  ware  right  sprightly.  Some  allowed 
I'd  make  my  mark  ef  I  lived  an'  got  my 
growth.  I  made  it,  yes ;  a  mighty  crosty 
kind  o'  mark  it  ware,  when  I  married 
Ike.  I  ain't  lacked  in  my  sarvice  none 
nuther,  as  I  can  see ;  an'  what  I  hev  got 
in  exchange  fur  hit  air  blows  and  hard 
names.  Lord,  ef  it  ware  not  fur  the 
chillen,  the  chillen  that  he  air  ruinin'  of, 
I'd  h'ist  my  heels  an'  take  that  thar  road 
up  the  mount'n,  an'  travel  away  from 
here  quicker'n  yer  could  say  c  Jack  Rob- 
erson.'  If  it  ware  not  fur  the  chillen  I'd 
do  it." 

For  the  children ;  how  many  weary 
women  have  bowed  their  backs  to  their 
burdens,  and  taken  their  crosses  again  for 
the  sake  of  the  children,  —  the  children, 
God-given  to  keep  soul  and  body  in  har- 
ness if  not  in  unison  ! 


A  Humble  Advocate  293 

"  You  Josephine  ?  Am  I  got  ter  wait 
all  day  fur  a  mouffull  o'  cole  victuals  ? 
Or  hev  ye  gone  spang  deef  that  ye  can't 
hear  noways,  when  I  call  ter  yer?  Hi 
God,  ye  air  gitten  too  peart  an'  independ- 
ent ter  suit  my  fancy.  Standin'  thar  sun- 
gazin',  air  ye  ?  an'  me  a-waitin'  fur  my 
breakfus'.  Gol  darn  ye,  ef  yer  don't  come 
in  here  an'  fish  out  them  victuals  I'll  fling 
the  shovel  at  yer;  else't  this  here  brat  as 
can't  make  out  ter  git  itse'f  wake  like 
other  folks." 

She  was  in  the  cabin  long  enough  before 
the  man  had  completed  his  complaint, 
and  was  dishing  up  the  breakfast.  She 
paid  no  heed  to  his  threats  until  he  strode 
over  to  the  trundle-bed  where  the  baby 
was  sleeping,  the  older  child  having  risen 
when  Gary  called  his  wife  to  get  his  break- 
fast up. 

"  Stan*  back  from  thar,"  she  com- 
manded. "You-uns  jest  let  that  thar 
chile  be,  Ike  Gary." 

Whether  it  was  the  glitter  in  the  rest- 


294  A  Humble  Advocate 

less  eyes,  or  whether  he  was  too  stupidly 
indifferent  to  carry  out  his  threat,  she 
neither  knew  nor  cared  ;  with  a  low  laugh 
of  derision  he  drew  his  chair  up  to  the 
table  and  began  to  eat  his  breakfast.  The 
woman  sat  near,  not  eating,  but  waiting 
upon  her  husband,  and  the  little  boy,  who 
scrambled  up  into  a  chair  at  her  side  and 
began  calling  for  a  dodger. 

"  I'd  wash  my  face  an'  hands  first  ef  I 
ware  ye,"  said  the  mother.  "It  air  plumb 
bad  manners  ter  eat  without  washin'." 

"  Let  him  be,"  said  Gary.  "  What  be 
the  use  anyhow?  They-uns'll  be  dirty 
ag'in  'ginst  dinner-time.  Eat  yer  break- 
fus',  son  ;  pappy'll  let  ye." 

"  That  ain't  no  way  .ter  raise  chillen," 
said  Mrs.  Gary.  As  she  had  so  many 
times  told  herself,  she  couldn't  get  her 
own  consent  to  hold  her  tongue  where 
the  children  were  concerned. 

The  man  made  no  reply ;  he  was  busy 
with  the  chicken  she  had  broiled  and  set 
before  him.  When  he  had  finished  and 


A  Humble  Advocate  295 

pushed  back  his  plate,  he  seemed  in  a 
better  humour, — disposed  to  talk,  indeed; 
though  the  talk  always  meant  either  an 
argument  or  a  season  of  ridiculing  the 
woman  whom  he  regarded  as  his  weaker 
half. 

"Whar  did  you-uns  stay  las'  night?" 
She  put  the  question  timidly,  knowing 
from  experience  what  the  reply  would 
be. 

"  Waal,  now,  Miss  Master,  whar  do  ye 
reckin  ? "  said  he.  "  I  ware  somewbars, 
that  ought  ter  satisfy  ye.  But  Lor,  these 
women ;  they  air  obleeged  ter  know  it  all. 
Waal  then,  ef  ye  must  know,  I  ware  down 
to  the  Forge ;  an'  some  o'  the  candidates 
ware  thar,  an'  we  had  all  the  liquor  we 
could  carry,  an'  more.  An'  they-uns 
ware  powerful  anxious  ter  git  my  vote, 
too,  I  can  tell  ye.  Offered  me —  " 

She  bent  her  small,  bright  eyes  upon 
him  a  moment,  then  made  a  gesture  as  of 
waving  him  off: 

"  Ef  you-uns  hev  been  a-takin'  of  bribes 


296  A  Humble  Advocate 

an'  sech,  Ike  Gary,  /  don't  want  ter  know 
it." 

"Jest  as  ye  please,  jest  as  ye  please. 
But  stir  yer  stumps  an'  get  the  cuckle- 
burrers  out'n  that  thar  brat's  head.  I 
aims  ter  fetch  him  ter  town  with  me  ter- 
day." 

"  He  ain't  fit  ter  go,"  she  replied. 
"He  ware  ailin'  all  night.  I  gin  him 
paregoric  twicet  endurin'  o'  the  night." 

"  He's  a-goin'  jest  the  same,"  said 
Gary.  "  An'  ef  you-uns  wants  ter  sen' 
him  off  lookin'  like  the  witches  hev  had 
him,  /  ain't  keerin'.  He's  my  chile,  I 
reckin,  an'  I  aims  ter  do  ez  I  please  with 
him.  Git  up,  son,  an'  git  yer  hat. 
Pappy's  gwine  let  ye  ride  behin'  him 
down  ter  S'vierville  ter-day." 

Rebellion  was  useless ;  she  had  tried  it 
too  often  not  to  know.  She  smoothed 
out  the  tangled  yellow  hair,  and  washed 
the  face  that  shone  again  with  the  antici- 
pation of  a  ride  to  the  county-seat.  And 
when  the  man  extended  a  leg  and  reached 


A  Humble  Advocate  297 

his  hand  to  the  boy  to  drag  him  up  to  the 
saddle  behind  him,  she  stood  at  the  gate 
and  "saw  them  off"  with  the  best  grace 
she  could  summon. 

"  Keep  a  holt  on  the  tail  of  yer  pappy's 
coat,  son,"  she  admonished  the  smiling 
youngster.  "  An'  Ike,  you-uns  hoi'  on 
ter  Benny ;  he  ain't  use  ter  ridin'  behin', 
an'  he'll  slip  off  inter  Pigeon  River  or 
somers,  an'  git  hisse'f  drowned,  ef  ye  ain't 
keerful  of 'him." 

"  Lord,  Lord,  listen  at  the  critter,"  said 
Ike.  "Air  he  my  chile  or  not?  That's 
what  I'd  like  ter  know." 

As  they  rode  away  she  stood  watching 
them  through  eyes  in  which  anger  had 
dried  the  tears  that  might  otherwise  have 
come  to  her  relief. 

"  Ter  hear  that  man  talk,  anybody 
would  think  as  it  air  all  his  chile,  an'  that 
he  never  had  no  mammy ;  leastways  that 
she  got  no  more  ter  say  in  the  raisin'  of 
him  than  ef  she  ware  a  stick.  Women  air 
no  better  than  that  nohows,  I'm  a-thinkin'. 


298  A  Humble  Advocate 

The  laws  o'  this  kentry  gins  a  man  the 
right  ter  hoi'  the  lash,  an'  he  hoi's  it. 

"  The  laws  ;  I  say  I  A  pretty  thing  the 
laws  o'  this  land  air,  a-settin'  by  an'  seem' 
chillen  bein'  kerried  ter  thar  death,  an' 
allowun'  as  it  air  all  right  becase  the 
father  hev  a  right  ter  do  as  he  likes  with 
his  own  chillen.  An'  whar  air  the  laws  fur 
the  woman,  I  say?  Why  don't  they  let 
the  women  he'p  make  'em  ef  they-uns  hev 
got  ter  live  up  ter  'em  ?  That's  what  /  want 
er  know.  Lor,  but  wouldn't  I  like  ter 
he'p  make  the  laws  fur  this  country ;  an' 
wouldn't  I  jest  give  the  women  a  showin' 
ter  live,  though  ?  Wouldn't  I?  " 

She  had  never  heard  of  woman  suffrage 
in  her  life.  She  only  knew  that  she  had 
felt  the  lack  of  the  law's  protection,  and 
recognised  in  a  vague  way  that  the  man 
who  governs  the  woman  is  not  competent 
to  make  impartial  laws  for  her.  The 
thought  had  come  to  her  often  before ; 
but  this  morning  she  was  so  impressed 
with  it  that  she  did  not  hear  a  step  com- 


A  Humble  Advocate  299 

ing  along  the  path,  the  nigh  cut  down  the 
mountain.  She  had  unconsciously  given 
voice  to  her  thought,  not  knowing  that 
she  had  an  audience :  "  Set  a  passel  o' 
men  ter  make  laws  fur  the  women  they 
expec'  ter  own  !  Shucks  !  Like  ter  make 
good  uns,  I  reckin." 

A  man  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  path ; 
he  had  heard  every  word  of  the  foolish 
complaining. 

"  Never  you  min'  'bout  that,  Mis' 
Gary,"  said  he.  "  Thar's  better  days  a 
comin'  fur  the  women-folks,  I  shouldn't 
wonder.  I  heeard  las'  week  whenst  I 
ware  down  ter  Knoxville  ter  witness  fur  Si 
Odem,  as  ware  indicted  fur  stealin'  of  a 
horse — Si  never  took  the  horse  no  more'n 
you  did,  an'  I  went  down  ter  witness  as 
he  ware  over  ter  my  house  the  very  day  he 
ware  'cused  o'  stealin'  the  cussed  critter 
over  in  Knox  County.  I  tol'  the  jury 
that,  but  they-uns  'peared  not  ter  take  my 
word  somehows,  an'  Si  ware  sent  ter  the 
penitentiary  fur  ten  year.  But  I  heeard, 


300  A  Humble  Advocate 

whiles't  I  ware  thar  witnessin'  fur  Si,  as 
how  the  women-folks  ware  goin'  ter  be  let 
ter  vote  befo*  mighty  long.  I  went  ter 
one  o'  the'r  meetin's  whiles't  I  ware  thar. 
'Tware  helt  in  a  tent ;  an'  how  them 
women  did  talk  about  the  men  ware  a 
scan'le,  Mis'  Gary.  Lord,  Lord,  ef  the 
women  don't  beat  my  time !  Wantin'  ter 
be  let  ter  vote,  same  as  men !  First  thing  ye 
an'  me  knows,  Mis'  Gary,  they'll  be  axin' 
ter  be  let  wear  pantaloons,  and  galluses, 
an'  sech.  Then  who  air  ter  cook  breakfus', 
I'd  like  ter  know?  Thar  ain't  no  tellin' 
what  the  women  o'  Tennessee  won't  be 
a-wantin'  of  next." 

She  was  listening  with  wide,  dilated 
eyes ;  her  heart  was  beating  like  a  ham- 
mer. 

"  Air  it  true  that  they  ull  be  let  ter  vote  ? 
Air  that  a  true  word,  Jeff  Bynum  ?  " 

"Wall,  now,  Mis'  Gary,  hit  ain't  quite 
settled  yit,"  said  Jeff.  "  This  air  the  shape 
they-uns  hev  got  inter.  The  women-folks 
they-uns  allows  thar  be  lots  o'  meanness 


A  Humble  Advocate  301 

kerried  on  in  Tennessee,  an'  they  let  on 
as  how  if  they-uns  be  let  ter  vote  they 
ull  send  good  men  ter  the  legislatur'  — 
men  as  won't  take  bribes,  an*  will  put 
down  liquor,  an'  wipe  out  wife-beatin',  an' 
mebbe  kill  the  Ole  Scratch  hisse'f,  fur  all 
anybody  knows." 

There  was  a  flash  of  the  dark  eyes,  a 
quiver  of  the  strong  lips  that  should  have 
had  a  girlish  laugh  upon  them,  instead  of 
that  weary  woman-look  they  wore. 

"  Did  the  women  o'  Knoxville  say  that 
air  ? "  Her  face  flushed  with  the  pride 
she  felt  in  them ;  she  could  have  fallen  at 
their  feet  in  very  worship. 

"  The  women  o'  Knox  an*  Hamilton, 
an'  some  from  as  fur  as  Shelby  hitse'f," 
said  Bynum.  "  I  declar'  ter  goodness, 
Mis'  Gary,  it  ware  a  plumb  caution  the 
way  they-uns  talked.  One  got  up  an' 
allowed  as  she  wanted  ter  vote  ter  holp 
^velop  a  ;»0ralerty  in  gov'mint.  I  won- 
dered what  the  fool  allowed  she  ware 
talkin'  'bout.  An'  another  one  wanted 


302  A  Humble  Advocate 

ter  vote  becase  she  didn't  want  ter  be 
classed  with  luner//Vj,  she  said.  Another 
one  didn't  want  ter  be  put  with  idjits, 
though  7  could  see  mighty  plain  as  she 
ware  one,  p'int  blank.  An'  one  ware 
ag'in  bein'  put  down  in  the  law  with  crim- 
ernals  an'  furriners,  an'  said  she  wanted  a 
ekal  right  ter  her  own  chillen.  f  Wom- 
en's rights'  they-uns  called  it.  Lord, 
Lord,  my  wife  gits  all  the  rights  she  air 
entitled  to  in  this  worl' ;  all  her  entitle- 
mints  an'  more,  ef  the  truth  ware  knowed. 
She  hev  got  the  right  ter  milk  the  cow, 
an'  cook  the  victuals,  ter  rise  up  an'  ter 
set  down.  What  more  mortal  critter  air 
wantin'  of  air  too  much  fur  Jeff  Bynum 
ter  say." 

He  waited  for  her  to  agree  with  him, 
but  she  was  silent.  She  was  no  longer 
listening ;  she  was  thinking  of  those  brave 
women  in  Knoxville.  How  her  soul 
went  out  to  them  !  The  slumbering  fires 
of  her  nature  awoke  and  made  response 
to  their  effort,  those  brave  few  fighting, 


A  Humble  Advocate  303 

contesting  every  inch  of  the  road,  their 
way  to  freedom,  —  their  way,  and  the  way 
of  all  womanhood.  She  was  with  them 
as  surely  as  though  she  had  been  in  their 
meetings,  been  one  of  them.  She  recog- 
nised the  need ;  her  heart  responded  to 
the  justice  of  their  claims.  She  would 
have  footed  it  all  the  way  to  Knoxville, 
gladly,  just  to  have  told  them  how  she 
thanked  them  for  their  effort. 

The  visitor  saw  the  keen  interest  in  the 
young  face,  and,  not  unwilling  to  make 
himself  interesting,  proceeded  to  talk. 

"  I  tell  ye  now,  Mis'  Gary,"  said  he, 
"  I  be  goin'  down  ter  fed'ral  court  nex' 
month,  ter  witness  fur  Abe  Stores,  as  air 
indicted  fur  illicit  distillin' ;  an'  I'll  keep 
my  ears  pricked,  an'  ef  I  heear  any  more 
about  this  here  thing  o*  the  women  votin' 
I'll  let  ye  know.  It  air  a  mighty  fine 
subject  now,  shore.  They-uns  allowed 
the  law  let  ever'  created  critter  have  a 
sesso  except  lunertics,  an'  convic's,  an' 
idjits,  an'  furriners,  an'  babies,  an  women. 


304  A  Humble  Advocate 

But  shucks,  says  I.  Whar's  the  good  o' 
votin'  ?  Hit  ain't  henderin'  the  workin's 
o'  Satan,  as  /  can  see.  He  air  jest  as 
lively  ter-day  as  befo'  the  women  axed  ter 
be  let  ter  vote,  Mis'  Gary." 

She  made  no  reply,  and  glancing  at  her 
face,  he  saw  that  she  was  not  thinking  of 
him.  Half  aggrieved,  he  turned  away. 

"  Waal,  I  must  be  a-mosin', "  said  he. 

The  words  recalled  her  wandering 
senses  ;  she  remembered,  even  in  her  won- 
der over  the  strange  knowledge  that  had 
come  to  her,  the  courtesy  due  a  visitor. 

"  Won't  you-uns  come  in  an'  git  a  bite 
o'  breakfus'  ?  "  she  said.  "  Hit  ain't  cole 
yet,  though  Ike  hev  et  his  an'  gone." 

"  Naw'm,  I  must  be  a-mosin'  on ;  I 
ware  at  a  coon  hunt  las'  night,  an'  the  ole 
'oman  she'll  be  a-lookin'  fur  me  ter  be  in 
time  fur  breakfus'.  Good  day,  Mis'  Gary. 
I'll  be  shore  ter  let  ye  know  'bout  the 
votin'  whenst  I  come  back  from  witnessin' 
fur  Abe." 

He  was  laughing  silently  as   he  went 


A  Humble  Advocate  305 

down  the  sun-flooded  road  with  the  loiter- 
ing step  of  the  all-night  reveller. 

"  Lord,  now,  wouldn't  she  cut  a  figger 
at  the  polls  ?  An'  wouldn't  the  boys  jest 
etarnally  laugh  Ike  out'n  the  Cove  ef  his 
wife  ware  ter  take  ter  votin'  an'  sech  ? 
But  ef  she  ware  ter  take  a  notion  ter  it, 
all  S'vier  County  couldn't  stop  her,  she 
air  that  heady  an'  high-strung." 

Ike,  meanwhile,  was  pursuing  his  way 
as  calmly  unconcerned  as  though  he  had 
the  world  at  his  feet.  When  he  reached 
his  store,  early  as  it  was,  he  saw  the  usual 
crowd  of  loafers  congregated,  waiting  for 
him  to  open  up  for  the  day. 

He  tossed  the  key  into  the  midst  of 
them  as  he  rode  past,  half  turning  in  the 
saddle  to  call  out  to  them : 

"  Open  the  darned  thing,  some  of  ye. 
An'  some  of  ye  shut  the  door  ter-night, 
'g'inst  varmints  an'  sech.  Holp  yerse'ves 
ter  barter  an'  sech,  an'  leave  yer  truck 
somers  in  thar.  I'm  goin'  down  ter 
S'vierville  ter  lay  in  some  goods,  mebbe. 


306  A  Humble  Advocate 

Bob  Bolton,  air  that  yer  snaggletooth 
countenance  over  thar?  Whar  air  that 
root  o'  rattlesnake's-master  you-uns  ware 
gwine  ter  fetch  ter  trade  fur  some  sor- 
ghum so  brisk?  Mis'  Durham  she  jest 
doctored  herse'f  on  corn  whiskey  whiles't 
she  ware  waitin'  on  the  rattlesnake's-mas- 
ter, that  thar  time  she  got  herse'f  bit. 
Got  t'arin'  drunk,  —  tight  as  the  devul ; 
killed  the  p'ison,  howsomever.  But  fetch 
it  'long,  fetch  it  'long;  thar's  a  plentier 
more  folks  fur  the  rattlers  ter  cut  the'r 
teeth  on  exceptin'  o'  ole  Mis'  Durham. 
Good  day,  folkses.  Walk  in  an'  make 
yerse'ves  ter  home.  An'  ef  so  be  thar's 
any  'mongst  ye  not  hones'  enough  ter 
charge  up  what  he  gits,  why,  let  him  steal 
it,  he's  welcome.  Ef  he'd  rather  be  a 
rogue  as  ter  be  a  hones'  man,  he  hev  got 
my  cornsent  ter  so  be." 

The  summer  waned,  the  days  grew 
shorter;  then  came  the  light  frost,  and 
autumn,  gaily  resplendent,  settled  upon 
the  hills.  The  trees  were  a  rustling  bur- 


A  Humble  Advocate  307 

den  of  scarlet  and  gold  and  amethyst. 
Then  came  the  hoarfrost,  and  vegetation 
died  like  a  newly  born  joy  in  the  heart  of 
a  woman.  The  scarlet  and  gold  gave 
place  to  ashes  and  dust ;  denuded  nature's 
heart  lay  bare.  Then  came  the  rains, 
November,  and  the  election.  Mrs.  Gary 
had  heard  nothing  from  Bynum ;  indeed 
she  had  not  expected  to  hear.  She  had 
heard  enough  to  awaken  her  heart  to  the 
great  possibilities  that  lay  buried  in  the 
bosom  of  that  mysterious  future  that 
might  dawn  sometime  for  the  women  of 
Tennessee. 

She  felt  sometimes  that,  had  fate  dealt 
her  a  different  lot,  she  might  indeed  have 
been  one  of  them,  —  one  of  the  helpers  in 
the  great  cause  that  was  already  dear  to 
her.  Yet,  "  I  dunno,  nuther,"  she  would 
tell  herself  when  this  thought  was  in  her 
heart.  "  I  dunno ;  mebbe  I  wouldn't 
know  so  well  what  the  need  air  ef  I 
hadn't  V  felt  it  as  I  hev  done." 

Experience,  mighty  mother  of  despair, 


308  A  Humble  Advocate 

had  taught  her  what  it  was  to  be  a  slave 
to  man's  meanness  and  ignorance.  A 
slave,  —  she  remembered  that  one  of  the 
Knoxville  women  had  said  she  wanted 
the  ballot  because  she  wanted  her  liberty. 
The  thought  had  taken  possession  of  her, 
that  humble  woman,  lost  among  the  hills 
of  Tennessee,  lost  to  everything  but  ig- 
norance and  despair.  Liberty ;  why,  it 
was  liberty  that  reared  Bunker  Hill,  made 
America,  —  liberty,  the  foundation  and 
chief  corner-stone  of  the  very  government 
itself;  the  palladium  of  all  peace;  the  base 
of  the  triangle  upon  which  is  founded  all 
brotherly  love  and  faith  and  hope.  And 
woman  was  the  only  one  of  God's  crea- 
tures to  whom  it  was  denied.  But  it 
would  come, — it  must;  the  mighty  minds 
of  earth  would  take  hold  some  day  and 
knock  off  her  shackles  and  set  her  free. 
The  idea  possessed  her ;  she  could  talk 
of  nothing  else.  Afternoons  when  Ike 
would  be  away  at  the  store,  or  off  on  a 
drunken  bout  somewhere,  she  would  take 


A  Humble  Advocate  309 

the  children  and  go  off  to  some  of  the 
neighbour  women's  houses  and  talk  to 
them  about  it.  But  she  got  little  sym- 
pathy ;  they  called  her  "  cracked,"  after 
awhile,  and  some  wondered  why  Ike 
Gary  didn't  make  her  "  stop  sech  etarnal 
foolishness." 

She  had  never  attempted  to  talk  to  Ike 
about  it  but  once.  It  was  one  evening 
when  he  came  home  from  Pigeon  Forge 
in  high  glee  because  of  a  speech  he  had 
heard  down  there  in  favour  of  his  chosen 
candidate  for  the  State  legislature. 

"  Did  ye  hear  anything  o'  the  women 
bein'  let  ter  vote,  whiles't  ye  ware  down 
ter  the  Forge  ?  " 

She  had  put  the  question  timidly ;  per- 
haps that  was  why  it  angered  him. 

"  Listen  at  the  fool,"  said  he.  "  The 
idee  o'  women  votin' !  What  do  women 
know  about  the  laws  o'  the  land  ?  I  de- 
clar  ter  God,  Josephine,  ef  you-uns  ain't 
gittin'  foolisher  an'  foolisher  ever'  day  ye 
lives.  Ye  ain't  got  as  much  gumption  as 


310  A  Humble  Advocate 

that  thar  chile  thar  this  minute.  Now,  I 
want  ter  tell  ye  as  I  hev  heard  enough 
'bout  that  thar  fool  notion  you-uns  hev 
took  up.  I  air  not  goin'  ter  be  laughed 
plumb  out'n  the  State  o'  Tennessee,  ef  I 
know  it." 

The  next  day  she  took  her  baby  under 
her  arm  and  went  to  pay  a  little  visit  at 
the  house  of  her  neighbour.  It  was  near 
the  time  of  the  election ;  the  men  were 
going  to  and  from  the  county-seat  every 
day.  She  might  learn  something  of  the 
great  question  that  had  so  agitated  her 
mind.  But  the  woman  did  not  once 
broach  the  subject,  and  it  was  not  until 
she  was  leaving  that  Mrs.  Gary  herself 
mustered  courage  sufficient  to  ask  about 
it. 

"  De  Lor',  Mis'  Gary,"  was  the  reply, 
"  ye  an'  me  better  stay  at  home  an'  'ten' 
ter  the  chillen  an'  the  men-folks,  an'  leave 
votin'  an'  law-makin'  to  them  as  the  Lord 
meant  ter  take  charge  o'  it.  Naw'm,  I 
air  not  lookin'  ter  vote.  My  ole  man 


A  Humble  Advocate  311 

allows  as  a  woman's  place  air  ter  milk 
the  cow  an'  cook  the  victuals  an'  'ten'  'ter 
the  men-folks,  —  ef  they-uns  hev  got  any 
men-folks  ter  'ten'  ter;  them  as  haven't 
may  go  votin',  7  say,  an'  the  Lord  hev 
mercy  on  the'r  souls." 

And  as  Mrs.  Gary  walked  homeward 
in  the  gray  twilight,  the  woman  regarded 
her  from  the  doorstep  with  a  curiously 
pitying  expression. 

"Josephine  Gary  air  in  an'  about  de- 
ranged,"  said  she.  "  She  hev  took  ter 
vagrantin'  roun'  the  mount'n  till  folks  air 
talkin'  mightily  about  her.  An'  they  do 
say  as  she  talks  polertics  same  as  a  man. 
Land  o'  Moses !  what  air  this  worl' 
a-comin'  ter,  /  say." 

Mrs.  Gary  had  not  made  herself  ob- 
noxious, however,  even  to  the  men.  She 
would  talk  politics ;  they  found  that  hard 
to  forgive,  'tis  true,  because  she  didn't 
always  agree  with  them  ;  but  as  to  the 
question  of  the  women  voting,  the  men 
made  light  of  that,  and  because  it  was 


312  A  Humble  Advocate 

something  so  entirely  novel  and  unlikely, 
they  forgave  her  that  "  bit  o'  gol-darned 
foolishness."  But  many  were  the  jokes 
cast  at  Ike  on  her  account ;  her  shoulders 
bore  the  marks  of  them.  Ike  had  his 
own  ideas  as  to  the  proper  means  of 
putting  a  stop  to  the  ridicule  she  excited. 

The  morning  of  the  election  dawned  at 
last,  clear,  cool,  a  forerunner  of  the  near- 
ing  winter.  The  voting  was  done  in  the 
old  way,  so  long  customary  among  the 
mountains,  and  Ike's  store  was  utilised  as 
a  precinct. 

Josephine  had  settled  it  in  her  own  mind 
that  she  would  go  to  the  poll,  merely 
as  a  matter  of  interest.  There  could  be 
no  harm  in  her  going  ;  it  was  at  her  hus- 
band's store,  and  other  women  would  be 
coming  in  to  trade  before  the  day  was 
over.  Ike  had  taken  the  older  boy  with 
him  early  in  the  morning.  It  was  nine 
o'clock  before  Josephine  set  a  pot  of 
pumpkin  to  boil,  and,  gathering  the  baby 
under  her  arm,  set  off  up  the  mountain. 


A  Humble  Advocate  313 

A  stranger,  a  man  from  one  of  the 
valley  towns,  was  seated  near  the  election 
boxes,  leaning  back  against  the  low,  rough 
counter.  He  glanced  up  when  Josephine 
entered,  to  wonder  at  the  brightness  of  the 
small,  dark  eyes  regarding  him  from  be- 
neath the  black  sunbonnet.  Her  entrance 
was  the  signal  for  the  settlement  jokers  to 
begin  ;  the  forms  of  greeting  were  varied : 

"  Come  ter  vote,  Mis'  Gary  ? "  asked 
one. 

"  Lor,  Mis'  Gary,  the  women  ain't  let 
ter  vote  yit." 

"  You-uns  air  jest  ninety-nine  year 
ahead  o'  the  time,  Mis'  Gary." 

"  Fetch  the  baby  'long  ter  vote,  too, 
Mis'  Gary  ?  Ye  know  ef  the  law  allows 
the  woman  it  ought  ter  allow  the  baby  ter 
vote,  too.  Women  an'  babies  air  dis- 
barred ;  the  law  disbars  ye  both ;  mebbe 
it'll  admit  ye  both  by  and  by." 

The  woman  shifted  her  baby  to  the  other 
hip,  and  regarded  her  teasers  silently  for 
a  moment ;  she  was  like  some  wild  crea- 


314  A  Humble  Advocate 

ture  of  the  forest  at  bay,  as  she  turned 
upon  them,  with  the  only  weapon  at  her 
command,  her  tongue : 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  "  the  law  air  ekal  ter 
that;  the  laws  o'  Tennessee  air  ekal  ter 
'most  anything.  But  "  —  she  paused, 
set  the  baby  upon  the  counter,  and  put 
into  its  hand  the  end  of  the  ball  of  twine 
used  for  tying  bundles,  then  slowly  lifted 
her  hand  — "  some  o'  you-uns'll  live  ter 
see  the  women  o'  the  land  cast'n'  o'  the'r 
votes  yet.  Let  them  as  laugh  look  ter  it." 

The  prophecy  fell  with  strange  force 
from  the  narrow,  strong  lips.  They 
regarded  her  with  a  kind  of  awe  for  a 
moment,  the  boldest  among  them  forget- 
ting to  sneer. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Ike,  who 
had  been  in  the  rear  of  the  house  rilling  a 
quart  bottle  with  kerosene  for  a  customer, 
came  forward,  the  bottle  in  his  hand.  He 
glanced  a  moment  at  the  silent,  gaping 
crowd,  with  their  gaze  fixed  upon  the 
woman  who  had  lifted  her  voice  in  proph- 


A  Humble  Advocate  315 

ecy.  His  swarthy  face  grew  livid ;  with- 
out a  second's  hesitation  he  lifted  his  arm 
and  hurled  the  bottle  with  all  his  strength 
at  her  head.  It  crashed  past  her  and 
went  to  pieces  in  a  thousand  fragments 
upon  the  wall  behind  her.  The  woman 
never  flinched. 

"  What  air  ye  doin'  here  ?  "  demanded 
the  angry  husband.  "  Didn't  I  tell  ye  ter 
stay  at  home  whar  ye  b'longed,  ye  dad- 
burned  hell-cat  ?  Comin'  here  ter  make  a 
fool  o'  yerse'f  befo'  a  passel  o*  fools  as 
ain't  got  no  more  sense  than  to  laugh  at 
ye  !  Lemme  git  at  ye ;  I'll  see  ef —  " 

The  group  separated  to  make  way  for 
him  as  the  half-drunken  man  strode  past 
them  ;  he  carried  a  rawhide  whip  that  he 
had  jerked  from  the  hand  of  one  of  the 
men  who  had  driven  a  yoke  of  oxen  to 
the  store.  The  woman  moved  aside,  not 
to  dodge  the  blow,  but  to  shield  the  child 
playing  with  the  twine-cord  upon  the 
counter.  One  sharp,  cutting  blow  de- 
scended upon  the  thin,  stooped  shoulders, 


316  A  Humble  Advocate 

but  before  he  could  lift  the  whip  for  a 
second  the  strange  man  leaning  against 
the  counter  sprang  to  his  feet  and  seized 
his  arm. 

"  Don't  you  do  that  again,"  he  com- 
manded. "  Don't  you  dare  to  strike  that 
woman  again,  you  damned  brute,  you. 
I  mean  what  I  say ;  no  man  shall  strike 
a  woman  where  I  am,  not  if  I  have  to 
hang  for  it.  Drop  that  lash,  you  coward, 
and  get  back  to  your  oil-tubs.  A  pretty 
thing,  you,  to  call  yourself  a  man ! 
Men," — he  turned  to  the  wonder-stricken 
crowd  about  the  door, —  "you  see  for 
yourselves  how  the  laws  of  the  State  need 
mending.  If  I  go  to  the  legislature  from 
this  county  the  very  first  bill  I  shall  in- 
troduce will  be  one  to  make  wife-beating 
a  felony  in  the  State  of  Tennessee.  Now 
you  may  elect  me  on  that  ticket  or  not, 
just  as  you  choose." 

A  few  minutes  later  he  stood  outside 
watching  for  Josephine  to  come  down  the 
rude  steps,  preparatory  to  going  home. 


A  Humble  Advocate  317 

"Why  did  you  come  here,  my  good 
woman  ?"  he  said,  wishing  to  offer  some 
kind  of  help  to  the  poor  creature.  "  Why 
did  you  come  here  ?  See  what  you  have 
brought  upon  yourself." 

He  pointed  to  a  blood-stain  upon  her 
shoulder  where  the  rawhide  had  cut 
through  to  the  skin.  She  glanced  at  the 
stain  and  then  at  him.  Something  in  his 
voice  appealed  to  her;  this  was  her  op- 
portunity to  say  a  word,  to  help  along  the 
women  of  Knoxville. 

"  I  am  not  keerin'  fur  that,"  said  she  ; 
"what  I'm  keering  for  air  my  liberty; 
I  want  my  liberty.  'Pears  like  the  women 
air  the  only  created  critters  as  hev  not  got 
the'r  freedom  in  this  worl'." 

Instinctively  there  recurred  to  him  a 
scene  he  had  witnessed  in  his  youth :  a 
slave  was  being  beaten  for  running  away ; 
he  was  bound  with  thongs,  and  another 
slave  was  made  to  ply  the  lash ;  it  was  of 
rawhide  also,  and  there  was  blood  upon 
the  slave's  shoulders.  He  received  his 


318  A  Humble  Advocate 

punishment  without  a  groan  ;  but  the  next 
day  he  ran  away  again,  and  was  found 
dead  along  the  roadside  en  route  to  liberty. 
And  this  woman  of  Tennessee,  with  her 
bruised  and  burdened  back,  demanded  hers. 

"Ay,  God,  and  she  shall  have  it,"  he 
told  himself  as  he  galloped  home  through 
the  midnight ;  "she  shall  have  it,  if  word 
of  mine  can  avail  to  help  along  her  cause. 
Liberty  ?  Why,  men  have  died  for  liberty  ; 
they  have  died  to  give  the  gracious  boon 
to  other  men.  Yet  for  woman,  — who  has 
thought  of  her  ?  " 

The  words  of  the  mountain  woman 
throbbed  in  his  thoughts :  "  'Pears  like 
woman  air  the  only  created  critter  as  ain't 
got  her  freedom." 

He  saw  again  the  gaping  crowd,  the 
sneering  faces,  the  uplifted  lash.  Again 
in  his  ears  was  sounding  the  one  word  of 
defence  offered  :  "  Some  o'  you-uns'll  live 
ter  see  the  women  o'  the  land  castin'  o' 
the'r  votes  yet." 

Prophetic  words,  and  big  with  meaning  ! 


Tappine 


E1VE  that  is  born  in  the  heart  of  a 
woman,  —  what  a  curious  thing  it 
is  !  It  comes  uncalled,  unsought,  and 
often  unwanted.  And  oh,  the  ravages 
it  makes  !  Now,  there  was  Tappine,  — 
who  ever  would  have  looked  for  love  like 
that  in  the  heart  of  a  little  mountain 
maiden  ?  But  then,  love,  like  God,  is  no 
respecter  of  persons.  Which  is  natural 
too,  since  God  and  love  are  one. 

It  was  morning  at  Beersheba  ;  every 
cedar  and  pine  astir  with  the  good  winds 
that  sweep  across  the  mountain,  making 
the  great  plateau  indeed  a  health-crown 
to  the  brave  old  Cumberlands. 

Already  the  summer  was  astir,  the 
319 


3  2O  Tappine 

guests  arriving.  The  big  hotel  would 
soon  open  its  doors  to  the  nature-loving 
few  who  still  haunt  the  beautiful  still- 
nesses of  Beersheba. 

Over  among  the  cottages,  picturesque 
log  palaces  indeed,  might  be  seen  one  set 
apart  from  the  rest  somewhat.  Larger, 
handsomer,  furnished  with  all  the  richness 
of  a  Southern  ease-lover.  The  windows 
stood  wide  open,  a  banner  of  lace  waving 
from  each.  In  the  piazza  a  hammock  of 
gay  colours  was  swinging,  and  in  the  ham- 
mock the  young  Mrs.  Ennerly  lay  curled 
up  among  her  silken  pillows.  She  held  a 
book,  but  Mrs.  Ennerly  was  not  reading. 
Her  thoughts  were  far  away  among  the 
purple  distances  of  another  mountain, 
where,  in  the  first  fond  flush  of  girlhood, 
she  had  registered  her  one  romance,  her 
"  one  folly,"  she  sometimes  told  herself; 
though  she  always  told  herself  this  with 
a  sigh,  as  though  the  folly  might  have 
had  its  tender  side,  no  less  than  its  fool- 
ish. 


Tappine  321 

Her  one  romance ;  life  has  but  one 
romance,  indeed ;  say  what  we  may,  do 
what  we  please  to  disprove  it,  there  is, 
deep  down  in  every  heart,  but  the  one 
truly  warm  spot  upon  which  the  soul 
will  fondly  fix  itself  at  last,  when  youth 
and  dreaming  shall  have  given  place  to 
memory. 

The  lady  in  the  hammock  was  thinking 
of  her  one  bright  spot,  where  the  winds 
soughed  softly  in  the  autumn-time,  and 
the  brown  leaves  drifted  down  among  the 
hollows  of  a  hundred  old  graves,  over  on 
that  other  mountain  where  her  poor  little 
romance  had  begun  and  ended  all  in  one 
bright,  brief  autumn. 

Suddenly  the  dreamer  lifted  herself 
upon  an  elbow  to  listen ;  through  the 
open  door  of  the  dining-room  the  voice 
of  her  husband's  mother  came,  softly 
modulated,  after  the  manner  of  well-bred 
gentlewomen,  and  in  striking  contrast  with 
the  joyously  untrained  voice  of  the  visi- 
tor, with  whom  the  lady  was  conversing. 


322  Tappine 

"Yes,  we  are  back  early  this  year,"  the 
elder  Mrs.  Ennerly  was  saying.  "  Alice 
was  really  homesick  for  the  mountain, 
and  so  we  ran  off  before  the  season  was 
fairly  open.  My  son  will  not  come  for 
awhile,  and  then  for  just  a  little  time ;  he 
is  busy,  always  busy ;  so  that  we  shall  be 
quite  alone,  we  two.  How  is  your  grand- 
mother, this  summer  ?  "  The  younger 
Mrs.  Ennerly  leaned  forward  in  the  ham- 
mock : 

"  Mother !  Oh,  mother  !  Send  Tap- 
pine  to  me." 

Tappine  did  not  wait  to  be  sent;  in 
another  moment  she  stood  framed  by  the 
dark  doorway,  a  picture  that  had  caught 
the  artistic  eye  of  the  city  woman  many  a 
previous  summer.  A  slight,  frail  figure, 
full  of  lissome  grace,  and  of  the  innocent 
ease  that  belies  the  knowledge  of  posing. 
She  wore  a  gown  of  dark  blue  cotton  that 
brought  out  with  peculiar  emphasis  the 
fair  pinkish  complexion,  always  found 
among  the  very  young  girls  of  the  moun- 


Tappine  323 

tains,  and  the  bright,  loose  waves  of  hair 
that  fell  about  the  slight,  evenly  sloped 
shoulders. 

Her  eyes  were  blue,  darkly,  richly  blue, 
with  lashes  that  fell  like  a  fringe  of  lace 
upon  the  softly  babyish  cheek.  Yet  de- 
spite her  youth,  and  the  pink  and 
white  of  the  childlike  complexion,  there 
was  that  about  her,  in  the  flash  of  the  eye, 
the  curve  of  the  thin,  well-cut  lip,  that 
bore  evidence  of  strength,  which  might, 
under  stress  of  necessity,  leap  into  life. 

The  blue  eyes  danced  with  undisguised 
delight  as  they  rested  upon  the  figure  in 
the  hammock.  Mrs.  Ennerly  extended 
a  jewelled  hand  :  "  Tappine,  I  had  begun 
to  believe  you  had  really  forgotten  that  I 
was  here." 

There  was  that  in  the  voice,  that  tone 
of  real  pleasure,  that  caused  the  older 
woman,  listening,  to  wonder  again,  as  she 
had  so  many  times  wondered,  at  the 
strange  affection  that  had  sprung  up  be- 
tween these  two  whom  fate  had  seemingly 


324  Tappine 

set  as  far  apart  as  fate  well  could  do.  She 
had  told  herself  more  than  once  that  it 
was  the  child's  beauty  —  for  Tappine  was 
undeniably  pretty  —  and  a  sort  of  sym- 
pathy for  her  surroundings  that  had 
won  the  affection  of  her  daughter-in-law. 
Again  she  had  told  herself  that  it  was 
lack  of  company  that  had  brought  her 
daughter  to  seek  the  girl  for  a  companion 
in  her  tramps  through  the  woods.  But 
as  the  season  advanced  and  there  was  no 
lack  of  company,  had  she  chosen  to  have 
it,  and  the  lady  still  chose  Tappine  in 
preference  to  any  of  the  visitors  that 
thronged  the  hotel,  the  good  woman 
ceased  to  wonder,  and  accepted  the  odd 
friendship  as  one  of  her  daughter's  freaks, 
that  she  would  tire  of  by  and  by. 

As  for  Tappine,  she  recognised  nothing 
odd  in  the  friendship ;  the  mountaineer 
does  not  look  for  distinctions,  does  not 
see  them.  The  girl  stood  framed  in  by 
the  old  dark  door  until  the  lady  in  the 
hammock  extended  her  hand.  At  that 


Tappine  325 

she  stepped  quickly  forward  and  took 
the  soft  bejewelled  hand  between  her  own 
sun-browned  palms. 

"I  say  'forgot,'"  she  laughed;  "as 
though  I  ain't  been  honin'  ter  git  here 
ever  sence  the  stage  horn  blowed  fur 
Beersheby  yistiddy.  But  granny  took  a 
suddint  notion  ter  be  spinnin'  an*  thar 
ware  no  wool  for  bats  in  the  house,  so  I 
ware  obleeged  ter  go  over  ter  Alt'mont 
after  some.  Becase  when  granny  goes 
to  spinnin'  —  well !  she  air  a-goin',  that's 
all.  I  rid  like  a  Injun  all  the  way,  in 
hopes  ter  git  back  in  time  ter  come  over 
here  las'  night.  But  when  I  got  home 
granny  had  a  mis'ry  in  her  side  an* 
wouldn't  be.  lef  alone,  lest  she  might 
die  an  nobody  ever  know  it.  This 
mornin' —  " 

Tappine's  pretty  face  broke  into  dim- 
ples, which  the  handsome  lady  was  quick 
to  interpret : 

"  This  morning  you  came,  anyhow  ? 
In  defiance  of  *  bats'  and  'mis'ries;'  is 


326  Tappine 

that  it?  Well,  draw  up  that  footstool 
there,  and  tell  me  all  about  yourself. 
How  is  Ben  ?  And  are  there  any  new 
flirtations  ?  And  is  Jeff  behaving  him- 
self after  his  usual  bearish  fashion  ?  Tap- 
pine,  you  are  blushing;  your  pink  ears 
tell  me  so." 

In  the  blue  eyes  something  glittered 
with  suspicious  brightness  before  the 
fringed  lids  veiled  their  secret. 

"  Now,  Mis'  En'ly,"  the  slow  voice 
was  lifted  in  protest,  "  you  know  Jeff  air 
jest  allers  a-makin'  believe  he  air  mad 
about  the  boys,  Ben  Gary  an'  them, 
a-comin'  ter  see  me.  Las'  week  he  ac- 
tually got  fightin'  mad  with  Nate  Beene 
fur  axin'  of  me  ter  dance  with  him  at  the 
infare  down  in  Dark  Holler,  as  old  Mis' 
Beene  give  ter  her  daughter  Judy,  as  got 
married.  Nate's  mail-carrier  acrost  the 
mount'n,  you  know.  Well,  them  two 
had  a  tolerable  tussle,  an'  Nate  he  jest  lit 
in  an*  whipped  Jeff  plumb  good  fashion. 
I  liked  ter  'a'  kilt  myse'f  laughin',  it  ware 


Tappine  327 

so  comical,  an'  so  onexpected  to  Jeff,  who 
air  mostly  give  ter  doin'  the  whippin'  his 
own  se'f.  An'  Jeff  he  got  that  mad  he 
sent  Nate  word  he'd  meet  him  in  the 
Hollow  some  o'  these  days  an'  wallop  him 
until  his  folks  couldn't  tell  which  ware 
man  and  which  ware  mail-sack.  An'  Jeff 
air  good  to  do  it,  ef  he  can ;  you  rickerlict 
Jeff  can  be  toler'ble  catawampus  in  his 
temper  now'n  then." 

"  I  recollect  that  he  never  was  worth 
one  good,  honest  thought  from  you,  Tap- 
pine,"  was  the  reply;  "and  I  had  hoped 
that  you  would  have  found  it  out  for 
yourself  by  this  time,  and  would  have 
been  ready  to  give  your  heart  to  good, 
honest  Ben,  who  really  loves  you.  As 
for  Jeff,  he  is  just  a  cross-grained,  jealous, 
ne'er-do-well  —  " 

The  girl  lifted  a  silencing  finger. 

"  Now,  Mis'  En'ly,  you  never  would 
give  Jeff  jestice.  He's  a  sight  better 
than  you  think,  an'  I  shouldn't  wonder 
ef  I  ware  ter  blame  far  most  of  we-uns* 


328  Tappine 

little  fracases  anyhows.  You-uns  can't 
jedge  him  like  me  as  have  lived  nigh 
him  allers." 

"But  —  " 

The  argument  was  promptly  brought 
to  an  end  by  a  dexterous  move  on 
Tappine's  part. 

"  Mis'  En'ly,"  said  she,  "  the  mount'n 
air  jest  full  o'  laurel,  an'  the  trailin'  arbu- 
tus ain't  nigh  all  gone.  I  allowed  maybe 
you'uns  'ud  like  ter  take  a  walk." 

Evidently  the  mountain  girl  understood 
the  weaknesses  of  her  city  friend,  and  in- 
deed she  well  might,  since  she  had  trailed 
the  mountain  with  the  great  lady  since  a 
little  girl  in  short  frocks,  hunting  for  the 
forest  treasures,  first  of  flowers,  later  of 
nuts  and  the  bright  leaves  of  the  autumn. 
Tappine  had  not  misjudged  the  fascination 
of  the  familiar  paths.  In  a  short  time  Mrs. 
Ennerly  had  exchanged  her  house  gown 
for  a  short,  dark  walking-dress,  and  was 
deep  in  the  heart  of  the  woods  with 
Tappine. 


Tappine  329 

"We  will  go  down  the  Backbone  and 
take  a  peep  into  Dark  Hollow,"  said  the 
lady,  "  and  then  we  will  climb  back  up  the 
bluff  and  go  over  to  Ben's  house  and  give 
the  order  for  the  summer  wood.  Is  that 
your  grandmother  calling,  Tappine  ?  " 

They  were  passing  a  little  low,  pictur- 
esque cabin,  half  hidden  under  a  mass  of 
greening  vines,  gourds,  and  jack  beans. 
An  old  woman  stood  in  the  door,  shading 
her  eyes  with  her  gaunt,  brown  hand  and 
calling  shrilly  to  the  girl  too  absorbed  in 
her  companion  to  hear  the  querulous, 
well-known  voice. 

"  Tappiny  !  Tappiny,  I  say  !  Thar 
ain't  no  meal  in  the  barr'l ;  some-un'll  be 
obleeged  ter  go  ter  mill  afore  long." 

Tappiny !  Was  it  possible  to  twist 
that  name,  with  its  own  pretty  music,  into 
such  a  hideous  sound  ?  Tappiny  !  The 
girl  herself  rebelled. 

"  Pears  like,"  she  declared,  when,  after 
a  friendly  word  to  the  old  woman,  the  two 
passed  on,  "pears  like  I  could  put  up 


330  Tappine 

with  granny's  tormentin's  a  sight  better 
ef  she  would  call  me  *  Tappine/  or  else 
c  Teen/  like  Jeff  an'  the  rest  calls  me.  I 
just  hate  that  thar  f  Tappiny'  Hush  ! 
some  un's  comin'  down  the  Backbone, 
Mis'  En'ly." 

They  stood  upon  that  little  narrow 
steep,  with  its  curious  distortions  and 
contortions,  long  and  steep  and  danger- 
ous, rising  like  a  blank  wall,  with  rigid, 
sharp  sides,  between  the  two  valleys,  to 
which  the  mountaineers  have  given  the 
name  of  Backbone.  On  one  hand  lay  the 
mythical  lowland  known  as  the  "  Gulch," 
on  the  other,  deep  down,  and  full  of  awe- 
some glooms,  and  rank,  even  at  midday, 
with  the  shadows,  nestled  the  Hollow, 
Dark  Hollow  indeed,  as  the  mountaineers 
had  named  it.  What  a  spot  for  a  suicide; 
what  a  dangerous,  deadly  spot  for  a  leap 
into  eternity,  and  what  a  spot  for  a  horse 
travelling  adown  that  steep  incline  with 
the  one  narrow  broken  path  before,  and 
certain  death  on  either  side  in  case  of  a 


Tappine  331 

misstep,  or  a  slip  over  the  ragged,  rock- 
ribbed  steep ! 

The  horseman  coming  down  the  steep 
at  that  moment  had  evidently  no  fear  of 
the  Backbone  ;  the  two  women  crowded 
close  to  the  bluff's  edge  as  the  sound  of 
hoof-beats,  uneven,  careless,  indifferent 
alike  of  danger  or  of  strangers,  came 
nearer  and  nearer.  A  moment  more,  and 
the  horse,  a  gallant  gray,  trotted  leisurely 
into  the  open  highway.  The  rider  was  a 
young  man,  stalwart  and  straight  as  an 
Indian.  He  sat  his  steed,  too,  with  some- 
thing of  the  easy  abandon  of  the  man  of 
the  plains.  He  wore  neither  coat  nor 
vest,  and  his  feet  and  lower  limbs  were 
encased  in  long  leathern  riding-boots  as  a 
precaution  against  the  mountain  streams 
through  which  his  route  would  carry  him. 
For  the  rider  was  neither  more  nor  less 
than  Jeff  Mabry,  the  ne'er-do-well  of  the 
neighbourhood,  who  had  been  so  fortu- 
nate as  to  win  the  heart  of  Tappine,  the 
mountain  belle. 


332  Tappine 

Jeff  was  going  hunting,  evidently,  for  a 
rifle  was  slung  across  the  saddle  bow,  and 
a  cartridge-belt  was  tightly  buckled  about 
his  waist.  As  the  familiar,  graceful  figure 
became  silhouetted  against  the  bright 
blue  of  the  sky  that  seemed  to  almost 
rim  the  dangerous  steep,  a  flush  mounted 
to  the  girl's  cheek.  Instantly  Tappine 
was  the  coquette,  ready  to  almost  repu- 
diate the  acquaintance  with  the  man 
whose  praises  her  nimble  tongue  had  but 
a  moment  before  delighted  to  sound.  As 
the  gray  horse  trotted  nearer,  the  attitude 
of  the  girl  changed,  the  scarlet  of  the 
pretty  face  gave  place  to  a  half  pallor; 
the  coquetry  was  lost  in  the  anxiety  with 
which  she  awaited  the  action  of  her 
capricious  lover. 

Was  he  still  jealous  ?  Tappine  was 
but  human,  after  all,  and  so  long  as  Jeff 
allowed  this  flame  of  his  adoration  to 
blaze  before  her  eyes,  just  so  long  was 
she  ready  to  add  fuel  to  its  fire. 

But  to-day  she  felt  keenly  anxious  that 


Tappine  333 

he  should  be  friendly,  should  appear  well 
in  the  eyes  of  the  woman  who  had  so 
often,  and  so  strongly,  condemned  him. 

But  a  glance  at  the  sullen,  boyish  face 
convinced  her  that  her  hopes  were  doomed 
to  their  usual  disappointment.  She  drew 
farther  back,  to  the  very  edge  of  the  bluff, 
as  he  passed  her  with  a  scowl  and  a  care- 
less "  Howdy,  Teen,"  together  with  a  sul- 
len little  nod  at  her  companion,  whom  he 
at  once  recognised  as  "  the  fine  lady  from 
the  valley  as  Teen  have  took  up  with." 

There  were  tears  in  Tappine's  eyes 
when  the  gray  horse  trotted  out  of  sight 
down  the  Backbone.  Mrs.  Ennerly 
laughed  softly : 

"  Is  he  jealous  of  me,  Tappine  ?  "  she 
asked.  "  Is  he  afraid  I  shall  run  away 
with  you  some  day,  —  spirit  you  off  the 
mountain,  and  so  away  from  his  uncanny 
influence  ?  Or  is  it  just  the  ugly,  bearish 
nature  of  the  man  that  renders  him  so 
uncivilised  ?  Take  care,  Tappine,  it  isn't 
a  pretty  promise  you  are  holding  out  to 


334  Tappine 

your  life,  in  consenting  to  marry  Jeff 
Mabry." 

"  Now,  Mrs.  En'ly,"  the  girl  immedi- 
ately assumed  the  defensive  again  ;  "  you- 
uns  mustn't  lay  it  up  ag'inst  Jeff  fur  not 
speakin'  more  friendly.  He  air  just  mad 
at  me,  an'  he  done  that  ter  spite  me. 
He  ain't  got  any  grudge  ag'inst  you-uns." 

The  lady  stopped  and  placed  a  hand 
upon  the  girl's  arm,  firmly :  "  Tappine," 
said  she,  "  I  am  a  woman  of  the  world, 
and  I  know  men  as  well  as  women.  The 
man  who  treats  his  sweetheart  whom  he 
hopes  to  win,  as  that  boy  treats  you,  will 
be  Jto  the  wife  he  has  won,  a  brute.  I 
shouldn't  allow  him  to  trifle  with  me  a 
moment  longer,  were  I  you,  and  I 
shouldn't  love  him  either,  were  I  in 
your  place." 

The  girl  tossed  her  bright  head  and 
broke  into  a  laugh,  a  loud  ringing  laugh, 
which,  despite  the  music  of  it,  was  lack- 
ing in  that  more  delightful  quality,  mirth. 

"  Now,  Mis'  En'ly,"  said  she,  "jest  ter 


Tappine  335 

listen  at  you-uns !  A  woman  can't  holp 
who  she  loves,  and  she  can't  allers  love 
as  she  knows  ter  be  wise  an*  right.  Why, 
she  might  tell  herse'f  she  ware  a  fool  till 
she  drapped  dead,  an'  still  go  right  on 
lovin'  foolish,  plumb  inter  eternity.  That's 
woman  natur,  I  know  that  much,  Mis' 
En'ly,  an'  I  ain't  no  *  woman  of  the 
world  '  neither,  an'  I  don't  know  so  pow'- 
ful  much  about  men,  but  I  know  that 
much  o'  women.  They  can't  allers  love 
ter  suit  the'rse'ves,  an'  mighty  seldom  ter 
suit  the  balance  o'  the  world." 

The  worldly-wise  woman  was  silent. 
"  Women  can't  always  love  to  suit  them- 
selves." She  had  no  philosophy  with 
which  to  argue  the  too  sad  truth  of  the 
mountain  girl's  dearly  acquired  wisdom. 

Farther  down  the  mountain,  where  the 
great  distortion  inclines  to  the  level  again, 
the  narrow  road  separated  into  two  forks, 
one  leading  down  into  the  dismal  fastness 
of  Dark  Hollow,  the  other  sloping  gently 
into  a  little  tilled  enclosure,  in  the  centre 


336  Tappine 

of  which  stood  a  cabin  of  new-hewn  logs. 
The  sunshine  lay  in  bright,  golden  patches 
upon  the  doorsteps,  and  full  in  the  midst 
of  the  brightness  a  man  was  sitting,  bus- 
ily at  work  upon  some  diminutive  bit  of 
carpentry  that  was  engaging  the  attention 
of  two  children  pressing  as  close  to  the 
knees  of  the  young  carpenter  as  the  brisk 
playing  of  a  handsaw  would  permit.  It 
was  a  pleasant  face,  beaming  with  honest 
and  surprised  delight,  that  was  lifted  in 
response  to  Mrs.  Ennerly's  call.  He 
rose  at  once  and  strode  briskly  for- 
ward, leaving  his  unfinished  work  for  the 
youngsters  to  enjoy  after  their  own 
ideas. 

"  Waal,  now,  if  this  air  not  a  surprise, 
I'll  be  blessed  ! "  he  exclaimed,  with  the 
unaffected  sincerity  of  the  mountaineer, 
who  recognises  distinctions  neither  of 
class  nor  of  wealth.  "  Howdy-do,  Mis' 
En'ly,  an'  Teen  too  ;  waal,  waal,  waal.  I 
hope  you-uns  air  well,  Mis'  En'ly.  No'm, 
I  ain't  fitten  ter  shake  hands ;  the  chillen 


Tappine  337 

got  after  me  ter  make  'em  a  wagin ;  they're 
my  sister  Emily's  chillen,  an'  I  have  been 
a-tinkerin'  on  that  wagin  till  my  hands 
air  that  rough  an'  splintery  they  ain't  fitten 
to  be  shook.  But  I'm  monstrous  glad  to 
see  you  back  to  Beersheby,  I  sholy  am. 
I  heeard  night  befo'  last  you-uns  ware  on 
the  way,  an'  I  laid  off  in  my  mind  ter  go 
by  ter-night  an'  ax  Teen  to  go  over  thar 
with  me,  an'  find  out  ef  you  wanted  the 
wood  same  as  common.  I  flung  one  load 
overanyhows,  ter  begin  on.  I  reckin  it's 
all  right.  I  knowed  Teen  would  be 
willin'  ter  go,  because  Teen  ain't  never 
been  knowed  ter  refuse  ter  go  ter  Beer- 
sheby yit,  after  it  air  known  you-uns' 
house  air  open." 

He  laughed  and  looked  at  the  girl, 
waiting  for  her  to  admit  the  pleasant 
charge.  But  Tappine  was  not  listening. 
Her  glance  was  fixed  upon  the  Hollow, 
with  its  deep  and  echoless  shadows,  its 
mysterious  glooms  and  mist-shrouded 
paths  into  which  her  lover  had  ridden 


33  8  Tappine 

away  with  a  careless  word  and  an  angry 
heart.  "  Women  can't  love  to  suit  them- 
selves." Alas !  poor  Tappine,  hers  had 
been  a  wisdom  born  of  that  most  bitter 
teacher,  experience. 

It  was  not  till  Ben  put  his  hint  into  a 
plain  request  that  Tappine  came  back  to 
a  realisation  of  what  he  was  saying. 

"  Will  you-uns  walk  over  to  Beersheby 
ter-night,  Teen  ?  I  want  ter  be  ss.rtain 
Mis'  En'ly  found  the  house  all  right,  as  it 
ware  lef '  ter  my  care." 

Tappine  hesitated ;  she  had  that  mo- 
ment resolved  that  she  would  leave  off 
teasing  Jeff  by  her  flirtations,  and  meet 
the  sensitive,  jealous  lover  upon  his  own 
terms.  Jeff  was  reasonable  enough,  she 
considered,  when  she  didn't  "  vex  him 
with  her  foolishness."  Which  meant  that 
Jeff  was  so  wholly  unreasonable  as  to 
demand  the  entire  allegiance  of  his  sweet- 
heart. Ben  was  waiting  for  her  answer, 
however,  and  Mrs.  Ennerly  was  watching. 
She  shook  off  her  sudden,  unspoken  sub- 


Tappine  339 

jection,  and  replied  with  careless  indiffer- 
ence: 

"  Yes,  I  can  go,  I  reckin,  ef  my  granny 
don't  need  me." 

It  was  a  week  later  that  Mrs.  Ennerly 
came  over  to  the  cabin  to  challenge  the 
girl  for  a  tramp  through  the  forest.  Tap- 
pine  was  leaning  upon  the  low  palings  of 
the  gate,  her  long,  loose  hair  floating  lightly 
in  the  brisk  breeze  of  the  mountain  sum- 
mer, her  bare,  brown  arms  crossed  upon 
the  wooden  palings,  her  eyes  following 
the  fast  receding  outlines  of  a  horse  and 
rider  disappearing  down  the  road  in  the 
mist  of  the  morning. 

Something  bright  —  and  bitter  —  shone 
in  the  blue  eyes  for  a  moment,  and 
trickled  slowly  down,  to  fall  unchallenged 
upon  the  bare,  brown  arms.  The  instant 
horse  and  rider  disappeared,  the  bright 
head  of  the  watcher  dropped  upon  the 
folded  arms,  and  Tappine  burst  into  tears. 

"  Tappine!  Tappine  !  "  It  was  the  soft 
voice  of  the  well-bred  "  woman  of  the 


34-Q  Tappine 

world,"  who  "  understood  men,"  and  who 
understood  so  poorly  the  tender,  human 
heart  of  woman. 

"  Tappine,  what  a  little  goose  you  are. 
Leave  off  your  crying  and  come  away  to 
the  woods  with  me.  Is  it  another  quarrel, 
or  is  it  that  granny's  demands  are  too 
many  this  morning  ?  " 

Tappine  lifted  her  head  a  moment  and 
pointed  down  the  long,  zigzag  road  to  the 
Backbone. 

"  It's  all  over  for  true  this  time,"  said 
she.  "Yonder  goes  Jeff,  ridin'  away 
down  the  mountain,  an'  ridin'  out  o'  my 
life,  fur  ever.  He  got  mad  becase  Ben 
fetched  me  over  ter  you-uns'  house  last 
week,  an'  he  allowed  —  oh,  Mis'  En'ly,  he 
allowed  as  how  I  might — go  —  to  —  the 
—  devil." 

"  Tappiny  !  You  Tappiny,  I  say  !  " 
The  shrill  voice  of  the  old  grandmothei 
came  from  the  cabin  door.  "  The  din- 
ner's ter  bile,  Tappiny ;  stir  yer  stumps, 
chile,  stir  yer  stumps." 


Tappine  341 

Clearly  there  could  be  no  walk  that 
day.  Mrs.  Ennerly  said  good-bye,  and 
Tappine  took  her  sore  little  heart  into 
the  old  cabin,  and  set  about  her  humble 
task  of  preparing  the  midday  meal.  And 
all  day  the  sunshine  fell  in  golden  patches 
about  the  cabin  door,  shooting  long,  shim- 
mering rays  far  into  the  room,  as  though 
to  woo  her  from  her  grief.  But  Tappine 
did  not  see  the  brightness.  For  her  there 
were  only  shadows,  and  premonitions  of 
evil  about  to  fall  upon  the  little  life  that 
had  been  scarcely  more  than  a  bird's  light 
life,  flitting  in  and  out  among  the  shine 
and  shades  of  the  mountain. 

Ben  dropped  in  after  dinner  to  tell  her 
of  the  great  times  they  were  to  have  at  a 
protracted  meeting  near  by,  and  to  ask 
her  to  go  "  along  of  him." 

But  Tappine  sighed,  and  allowed  she 
couldn't  go,  there  was  so  much  to  do  at 
home.  So  poor  Ben  said  good-bye  long 
before  he  was  ready  to  go,  because  he  saw 
that  Tappine  was  not  listening  to  him,  or 


342  Tappine 

thinking  of  him  in  the  least.  But  at  sun- 
set Ben  came  galloping  back  on  his  fiery 
brown  mare,  and,  throwing  the  bridle-reins 
over  the  little  low  fence  paling,  which  the 
gallant  little  mare  must  have  long  since 
learned  to  regard  as  her  proper  hitching- 
place,  went  dashing  into  the  cabin  where 
Tappine  sat  at  her  spinning-wheel,  with 
such  a  tale  of  horror  upon  his  lips  as  sent 
the  hot  blood  freezing  back  to  the  girl's 
heart  while  she  listened.  And  he  had 
scarcely  finished  his  story  before  Tappine 
was  speeding  away  across  the  mountain  to 
Beersheba,  her  hair  damp  with  the  even- 
ing dews,  her  lips  white  and  dry,  her 
throat  aching  with  the  strange,  wild  news 
she  carried.  She  burst  into  the  little  sit- 
ting-room, where  Mrs.  Ennerly,  sitting 
among  the  twilight  glooms,  busy  with  her 
thoughts  and  fancies,  rose  impulsively  at 
the  first  sound  of  the  girl's  voice,  hoarse 
and  broken  as  she  had  never  heard  it. 

"  Mis'  En'ly  !    Oh,  Mis'  En'ly,  he  air 
gone.     Jeff"  air  gone  ;  he  have  kilt  Nate 


Tappine  343 

Beene,  the  mail  rider,  an'  have  run  away, 
an'  they  air  trackin'  of  him  with  dogs — " 
She  fell  forward  into  the  extended  arms 
of  the  strange,  beautiful  woman,  in  whose 
heart  the  innocent,  warm-souled  girl  of 
the  hills  had  made  for  herself  a  place. 

Later  the  story  was  told  again,  by  Ben, 
while  Tappine  lay  among  the  silken 
pillows  of  Mrs.  Ennerly's  own  couch  ; 
and  listening,  Tappine's  were  not  the 
only  tears  shed  for  sorrow's  sake. 

They  had  found  the  mail-carrier  where 
the  river  wound  like  a  sluggish  snake, 
among  the  laurel  brakes  of  Dark  Hollow. 
A  bullet  from  Jeff's  own  rifle  was  in  his 
brain,  and  Jeff  had  ridden  straight  down 
to  the  ford,  turned  his  horse  loose,  and 
struck  out,  they  said,  straight  for  the 
mountains. 

She  never  saw  him  again,  poor  Tappine, 
for  he  never  returned-,  and  after  awhile 
she  tried  to  persuade  herself  that  he  was 
dead.  "  Wandered  away,  maybe,  some- 


344  Tappine 

whars,  an'  fell  off  a  bluff  an'  ware  kilt," 
she  told  herself,  "or  else  some  un  maybe 
have  murdered  of  him."  Yet  she  never 
forgot  to  be  thankful  that  he  escaped  the 
dogs,  the  track-hounds  with  which  they 
had  set  out  to  hunt  him. 

The  summer  waned,  the  brown  leaves 
were  drifting  down  to  fill  the  deeper 
hollows  of  the  wood,  and  one  morning 
Tappine  went  over  to  the  cottage  at  Beer- 
sheba.  For  with  the  coming  of  the  brown 
autumn  Mrs.  Ennerly  would  be  going. 
Tappine  found  the  lady  with  her  couch 
drawn  up  before  the  fire,  for  the  air  was 
chilly  already. 

They  talked  of  many  things,  quietly  at 
first,  for  the  lady  so  well  versed  in  the 
affairs  of  the  world  knew  enough  of  the 
heart  to  understand  that  its  griefs  are 
sacred  and  are  jealously  guarded  even  in 
the  hearts  of  the  humblest. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Ennerly  reached  her 
hand  and  placed  it  upon  Tappine's  gently. 

"  Tappine,"    said    she,    "  hadn't    you 


Tappine  345 

better  marry  Ben?  He  is  such  a  good 
fellow,  and  would  count  it  all  joy  just  to 
be  allowed  to  walk  by  your  side,  and  to 
care  for  you.  You  are  young,  Tappine, 
and  you've  no  idea  what  a  sombre  thing 
life  is  for  a  woman  alone,  and  unloved. 
You  will  feel  the  loneliness  of  it  as 
you  grow  older,  and  will  yearn  for  the 
companionship  of  human  sympathy  and 
affection.  Couldn't  you  give  Ben  the 
joy  of  caring  for  you,  Tappine  ? " 

The  brown  fingers  closed  with  spas- 
modic strength  about  the  white  bejewelled 
ones.  The  words  had  cut  like  a  knife 
into  the  wounded  heart. 

"  I  couldn't  do  that,  Mis'  En'ly,"  said 
Tappine,  "  I  couldn't  git  my  own  con- 
sent ter  so  harm  a  man  as  never  harmed 
me,  but  jest  only  loved  me.  I  couldn't  do 
it  nohows.  Pears  like  it  would  in  an'  about 
break  my  heart  ter  look  acrost  the  table 
ever'  mornin*  fur  a  face  I  love  an'  find 
another  face  thar.  An'  ter  wake  up  in  the 
night  a-dreamin*  it  may  be  of  the  arms  I 


346  Fappine 

love,  an'  daresn't  cry  out  with  the  pain  of 
disapp'intment  even  ;  fur  fear  o'  troublin* 
him,  the  man  as  loves  me,  an'  I  don't 
love.  I  couldn't  bear  it  nohows.  Pears 
like  'twould  be  more  lonesomer  than 
'twould  be  ter  set  alone  all  yer  life,  with 
the  free  right  ter  think  o'  him  yer  love, 
an'  ter  sob  it  ter  yer  pillow  at  night,  in 
the  dark,  an'  know  it  air  no  sin,  because 
thar  be  no  unloved  husband  lyin'  next  of 
you.  Pears  like  'twould  be  more  com- 
fortin',  jest  ter  make  a  sort  o'  friend  o' 
sorrer.  Pears  like  I'd  feel  myself  a  awful 
coward,  jest  to  marry  a  man  fur  fear  o' 
livin'  lonesome  all  my  days,  an'  maybe 
wantin'  of  a  home  an'  sech." 

The  fine  lady  among  her  cushions  held 
her  book  before  her  face,  upon  the  pretty 
rounded  outlines  of  which  the  firelight 
had  been  playing  pleasantly.  As  Tap- 
pine's  low  voice  died  into  silence,  the 
book  slipped  from  the  slender  fingers, 
and  Mrs.  Ennerly  rose  with  the  quick, 
impulsive  movement  of  a  child.  Tappine 


Tappine  347 

unconsciously  rose  at  the  same  time.  The 
lady  placed  a  hand  upon  either  shoulder 
of  the  slight  figure  before  her,  heavily, 
bearing  the  girl  down  to  her  knees  before 
the  couch  upon  which  she  herself  dropped 
wearily  among  her  cushions,  and,  her 
hands  still  pressing  the  girl's  shoulders, 
began  to  talk.  She  talked  rapidly,  as 
though  afraid  she  should  repent  the  con- 
fidence; her  eyes  sparkling  the  while,  and 
her  throat,  where  the  lace  fell  away  from 
it,  shining  white  and  polished  as  marble. 

"  Tappine,"  she  said,  "  I  am  a  woman 
of  almost  another  world  than  yours.  It 
is  impossible  we  should  look  at  life  from 
the  same  standpoint,  and  to  some  it  would 
seem  almost  unnatural  that  we  should  ever 
have  crossed  each  other's  lives  in  this 
friendly,  altogether  unconventional  way. 
Yet  women  are  women,  or  woman  is 
woman,  the  world  over,  and  possessed 
of  woman's  weakness.  In  this  are  they 
alike :  every  woman  has  hidden  in  her 
heart  a  grave ;  under  lace  or  homespun, 


348  Tappine 

it  makes  no  difference ;  the  grave  is 
there.  Not  one  but  has  it.  Some  sow 
the  spot  with  deeds  of  charity,  which 
spring  into  a  sort  of  blooming  after 
awhile,  which  serves  to  hid  the  grave's 
unsightly  outlines.  Some  plow  it  down, 
level  and  batter  it  smooth  with  the  shovel 
of  folly,  hoping  to  hide  it  from  the 
world's  eye.  Some  go  grandly  on,  bearing 
their  grave  with  them,  scorning  disguise 
and  make  believe  content.  They  do 
God's  work ;  do  it  grandly,  bravely ; 
hearing  his  voice  above  the  sounding 
of  the  hollow  tombs.  Yet,  the  grave 
yawns ;  the  soul  sorrows,  —  Tappine  ! 
Tappine!  —  " 

She  withdrew  her  hands  from  the  girl's 
shoulders,  and,  dropping  back  upon  the 
couch,  buried  her  face  among  the  silken 
cushions. 

To  the  ignorant,  sorrow-stricken  girl 
watching  her,  with  undisguised  surprise, 
there  was  something  exquisitely  sacred  in 
the  sudden  abandon  of  grief.  She  under- 


Tappine  349 

stood  so  well  what  sorrow  meant ;  she 
understood  so  well  that  the  grave  in  the 
lady's  heart  was  open  to  her  sympathetic 
confidence.  Bending  over  the  prostrate 
figure,  she  softly  stroked  the  bright  waves 
of  her  hair  lying  against  the  fair  temples ; 
a  caress  in  every  stroke  of  the  brown 
fingers. 

"  Mis'  En'ly,"  the  low  voice  was  full  of 
its  own  natural  healing,  "  I  reckin  I  ought 
not  ter  say  it,  but  it  somehow  helps  me 
mightily  ter  know  as  how  you-uns  have 
suffered  an'  been  sorrowful,  too." 

At  this  reference  to  her  secret,  Mrs. 
Ennerly,  in  the  full  tide  of  the  confidence 
for  which  her  heart  had  so  long  hungered, 
drew  the  girl  to  a  seat  beside  her,  and, 
covering  the  brown  hands  with  her  jew- 
elled fingers,  said : 

"  You  are  a  brave  girl,  Tappine,  —  a 
brave  girl.  I  am  a  coward.  I  haven't 
so  much  as  the  right  to  nurse  my  sorrow 
and  £  make  a  friend  '  of  it ;  for  I  am  one 
of  those  who  wake  to  find  the  unloved 


350  Tappine 

arms  about  them,  and  dare  not  cry  out 
for  fear  of  hurting  him,  —  my  husband. 

"Yet,  once  (every  woman  has  her  once), 
I  loved  a  man,  oh,  so  dearly !  A  man 
whose  very  voice  made  heaven  in  my  life. 
I  met  him  in  the  mountains,  —  not  here ; 
no  matter  where,  we  met  but  that  one 
brief  autumn-time.  Yet  those  two  short 
months  make  all  the  summer  of  my  life's 
little  love.  We  used  to  scour  the  moun- 
tain, he  and  I,  horseback,  in  the  golden 
autumn  afternoons.  Sometimes  we  stopped 
to  rest  and  ramble  among  the  graves  of  a 
little  old,  old  graveyard  among  the  moun- 
tains, where  the  dead  for  more  than  half 
a  century  had  slept  along  the  mountain's 
side.  Long  abandoned  as  a  burying- 
ground,  the  quaint  old  tombs  held  charms, 
fascinations,  that  I  could  not  describe  to 
you.  It  was  our  favourite  resort ;  that 
quaint,  deserted  burying-ground. 

"  One  evening,  passing  the  place  at 
sunset,  we  discovered  that  some  one  was 
being  buried  there  ;  the  sound  of  voices, 


Tappine  351 

and  low,  suppressed  sobs,  first  warned  us 
we  were  close  upon  a  funeral  procession. 

"  Full  of  curiosity,  we  waited  until  the 
train,  following  their  pathetic  burden,  had 
passed  in  among  the  tombs ;  then  we  dis- 
mounted and  followed,  determined  to 
witness  the  interment. 

"It  was  two  babies,  little  new-born  twins, 
they  were  laying  away  to  sleep  among  all 
that  array  of  old,  old  dead.  Alas !  the 
sadness  of  it,  —  the  pity  !  And  that  grave- 
yard,—  that  lonely  little  resting-place 
among  the  pines  and  soughing  cedars  ! 
I  buried  my  heart  there,  my  youth  ;  all 
of  me  that  was  worth  the  living  I  left  dead 
there  in  that  humble  little  spot  among 
the  ancient  dead  and  the  new-born  babes. 
I  felt  it  dying  while  the  acorns  dropped 
among  the  gray  tombs ;  and  the  leaves, 
amber  and  scarlet,  and  gay  purple,  went 
drifting  down  to  fill  the  hollows  of  the 
sunken  mounds.  Did  he  know  ?  Did  he 
dream  I  loved  him?  Did  he  understand? 
Did  the  dead  there  understand  what  I 


352  Tappine 

had  left  with  them  when  I  rode  away  in 
the  scarlet  sunset  ?  " 

She  had  forgotten  the  girl  at  her  side ; 
she  was  communing  with  her  own  heart, 
as  she  had  communed  all  the  lonely  years 
in  silence. 

"  Did  he  know  my  heart  broke,  I 
wonder,  while  he  told  me  in  that  slow, 
tortuous  way  of  his  approaching  mar- 
riage ?  Was  it  nothing  to  him  that  the 
scarlet  and  amber  of  my  life  were  dying 
like  the  tints  upon  the  autumn  ?  Did  he 
dream  I  loved  him  more  than  God  ?  Did 
he  understand  that  in  the  telling  of  his 
story,  a  grave  yawned  between  us,  deeper, 
more  real  than  those  ancient,  dust-filled 
hollows  at  our  feet? 

"  When  he  lifted  me  back  to  my  horse, 
I  caught  one  glimpse  of  his  face:  a  wild 
joy  thrilled  through  me.  The  devil 
tempted  me,  Tappine.  Did  he  love  her, 
—  that  other  one  who  was  soon  to  be  his 
wife  ?  His  hand  on  mine  lay  half  a 
second,  burning,  throbbing ;  one  word 


Tappine  353 

from  me,  —  and  then  I  put  my  devil  from 
me,  Tappine :  I  laughed,  spoke  a  careless 
word  of  congratulation,  mounted,  and  rode 
with  him  away  through  the  scarlet  even- 
ing, —  away  into  the  sombre  future.  It  is 
all  right,  child ;  don't  weep  so.  Sorrow 
has  its  compensation,  ever :  mine  has  been 
that  I  did  not  speak  the  word  that  would 
have  made  my  happiness,  and  made  her 
whom  he  married  other  than  his  wife. 
Throw  back  the  shutter,  Teen,  and  let 
the  light  in,  child.  We've  been  too  long 
among  these  graves." 

No  more  was  said,  ever ;  from  that  time 
the  grave  in  the  beautiful  woman's  heart 
was  closed  indeed.  To  Tappine  the  con- 
fidence was  something  too  sacred,  almost, 
to  remember,  —  a  confidence  wrung  from 
despair.  While  for  the  older  woman,  the 
unburdening  of  her  heart  had  been  as  a 
gentle  shower  to  a  dry  and  thirsty  land ; 
from  henceforth  her  sorrow  was  a  memory, 
fair  and  fond  and  sacred,  rather  than  a 
tomb.  True,  she  did  not  forget  the  pain 


354  Tappine 

of  it,  but  it  was  a  chastened  sorrow,  some- 
thing to  be  remembered  at  quiet  evening 
times,  when  peace  and  gentle  summer  lay 
upon  the  world.  And  thus  did  she 
remember. 

And  sometimes  there  came  to  her  fan- 
cies, vague  and  beautiful,  that  on  that 
other  mountain,  where  her  dream  was 
born  and  perished,  she  was  not  forgot- 
ten ;  sometimes,  in  the  quiet  evenings, 
she  loved  to  think  of  him  as  lingering 
in  the  dewy  dusk  about  the  little  rural 
burying-ground,  with  perhaps  a  sigh  for 
memory. 

But  for  Tappine,  sorrow  had  not 
learned  to  "  sob  itself  to  sleep."  Could 
she  have  known  her  lover  dead,  she 
would  have  felt  less  keenly  the  pain  of 
loving.  But  always  she  held  a  vision  of 
him  as  of  one  fleeing,  fleeing,  for  ever  flee- 
ing from  his  pursuers ;  the  bloodhounds 
upon  his  track,  danger  in  every  bush  and 
brake  and  gorge.  At  night  she  wakened 
to  hear,  as  part  of  her  troubled  and  un- 


Tappine  355 

easy  slumber,  the  deep,  relentless  baying 
of  the  dogs,  and  the  far-away  clatter  of 
hoofs,  still  fleeing,  —  fleeing.  One  morn- 
ing Ben  rode  over  in  hot  haste ;  again  the 
brown  mare  stood  at  the  gate,  the  lines 
tossed  lightly  over  the  low  palings,  while 
Ben  stopped  to  say  a  word  in  low  tones 
to  the  old  grandmother,  carding  her  bats 
under  the  crisping  leaves  that  still  hung 
from  the  eaves  of  the  little  porch. 

Tappine,  the  frail  body  but  a  shadow 
among  the  deeper  shadows  of  the  room, 
sat  back  among  the  glooms  of  the  kitchen, 
her  head  resting  against  the  spokes  of  the 
idle  wheel,  where  her  hand  had  been  wont 
to  make  gay  music  in  the  old  glad  days 
of  summer. 

She  lifted  her  face;  an  eager,  startled 
look  sprang  to  her  eyes  as  her  quick  ear 
caught  a  carefully  spoken  name.  The 
next  moment  she  was  at  Ben's  side,  the 
old  fires  in  her  eyes  and  in  her  heart. 

"  What  is  the  word  you-uns  have 
brought,  Ben  Gary  ? "  she  demanded. 


356  Tappine 

"  What  is  the  word  you  have  brought  of 
Jeff?" 

Her  tone  forbade  parleying,  or  sub- 
terfuge of  any  kind.  He  told  her  the 
truth  at  once. 

"  Jeff  air  not  run  away,  Teen,"  said  he. 
"  Or  leastways  they  have  tracked  him  to 
his  hidin'-place.  He  air  hid  out  in  a 
cabin  over  yander  on  Collins  River  —  " 

Slowly  the  last  drop  of  blood  left  her 
face ;  her  eyes  seemed  to  burn  into  him, 
like  coals  of  fire.  He  hesitated,  but  she 
lifted  her  hand  in  majestic  command. 

"  Go  on,"  said  she,  "  go  on." 

"  Well,  Teen,  I  don't  know  as  I  ought 
to  tell  you,  but  Jeff  have  sent  word  to  his 
folks  that  he  could  make  out  to  git  away 
now,  since  the  stir  for  him  air  over  some,  ef 
he  had  a  horse.  But  the  man  he  sent  the 
word  by,  —  it  ware  Jeff's  own  blood  kin, 
too,  —  he  fetched  the  word  to  the  sheriff 
'stead  o'  to  Jeff's  folks,  becase  thar's  a 
tolerable  big  reward  out  fur  Jeff  fur  killin' 
of  the  mail-kerrier.  I  heeard  the  men 


Tappine  357 

talkin'  at  the  tanyard  as  I  come  by,  and 
the  men  allowed  as  the  sheriff  would  git 
here  from  Altamount  long  befo'  the  old 
'oman,  Jeff's  mammy,  got  the  word  o'  his 
wantin'  of  a  horse.  Though  to  be  sure  it 
air  a  mighty  short  little  cut  through  to  the 
cabin  whar  Jeff  air  in  hidin' ;  ef  thar  ware 
some  one  to  warn  him.  It  air  that  old 
cabin  as  they  useter  hold  meetin'  in  till 
Collins  River  et  the  foundation  out ;  jest 
across  the  foot-bridge,  nigh  the  old  trail. 
What  air  you-uns  a-goin'  ter  do,  Teen  ?  " 

She  had  pushed  past  him,  and  stood  a 
moment  in  the  cabin  door,  her  eyes 
aflame,  her  hand  lifted. 

"  Stand  out  of  my  way,  Ben  Gary,"  she 
commanded.  "  Stand  out  o'  my  way ! 
Only  one  word  wanted  fur  a  man  as  be 
hunted  and  hounded  ter  his  death,  an' 
you-uns  refuse  to  speak  it.  I'd  hate  ter 
call  myse'f  a  man,  an*  be  you-uns.  Stand 
out  o'  my  way  !  I  ain't  got  any  time  to 
waste  on  sech  as  you  be." 

Mechanically  he  moved  aside.    To  him 


358  Tappine 

there  was  something  regal  in  her  bearing. 
A  protest  came  from  another  quarter, 
however ;  the  old  grandmother  planted 
herself  in  her  path. 

"  Whar  air  you  a-goin'  of,  Teen  ? " 
she  demanded.  "  It  air  aginst  the  laws  of 
the  State  to  holp  sech  as  be  runnin'  away 
from  jestice.  Do  you-uns  go  back  in  the 
house,  Teen." 

Alas  !  the  days  of  blind  obedience  were 
gone. 

"  Stand  out  o'  the  way,  granny,"  said 
the  girl.  "  This  air  no  time  for  foolish- 
ness." 

She  turned  her  back  upon  the  shadows 
of  the  house  that  had  indeed  been  a  dwell- 
ing-place of  shadows  for  her  ;  her  face  to 
the  light,  and  to  danger,  which  was  light 
too,  since  it  was  danger  incurred  for  love's 
sake.  The  two  watched  her  silently  from 
the  little  brown  porch.  Her  head  made  a 
golden  target  for  the  sun's  rays  as  she 
stood  a  moment  at  the  gate,  and,  with  a 
quick,  graceful  movement,  peculiar  to  the 


Tappine  359 

women  of  the  hills,  she  slipped  the  bridle- 
reins  from  the  low  palings  and  tossed 
them  over  the  brown  mare's  head.  A 
moment,  and  she  was  in  the  saddle,  dex- 
terously twisting  the  lines  into  a  lash.  A 
stinging  blow  fell  between  the  ears  of  the 
sensitive,  half-broken  steed,  that  sent  her 
bounding  forward  at  a  rate  that  must  have 
unseated  any  but  the  most  fearless  of 
riders.  Before  the  two  upon  the  porch 
could  fully  understand  her  meaning,  the 
sharp,  reverberating  sound  of  hurrying 
hoof-beats  came  back  to  them  from  the 
road  down  which  the  fearless  rescuer  had 
disappeared  in  a  cloud  of  yellow  dust. 

She  had  not  heard  the  startled  shout  of 
the  mare's  owner,  imploring  her  not  to 
strike  the.  animal. 

"  Don't  hit  her !  Don't  hit  the  mare, 
Teen  !  She'll  plumb  break  your  neck  if 
you  hit  her  !  " 

But  Teen  was  gone  ;  the  mare  had  shot 
from  the  blow  dealt  her  like  a  ball  from  a 
rifle.  As  the  last  glimpse  of  horse  and 


360  Tappine 

rider  vanished,  the  old  woman  turned  to 
Ben. 

"  Go  after  her  !  "  she  shrilled  into  his 
startled  ears.  "  Go  after  her !  Ef  the 
mare  don't  break  her  neck,  the  sherirFll 
arrest  her  and  fetch  her  ter  jail.  Go  ! 
thar's  a  nigh  cut  through  the  woods. 
Run,  I  tell  you  !  Don't  stand  thar  like 
a  fool  an'  let  my  gran'chile  be  killed." 

Breathless  and  spent,  he  reached  the 
forks  of  the  road  where  she  must  come 
down  the  Backbone  into  the  Hollow,  be- 
yond which  stood  the  forsaken  meeting- 
house in  which  the  fugitive  had  taken  a 
temporary  refuge.  Not  once  had  his  ear 
lost  the  sound  of  those  hurrying  hoof- 
beats  ;  he  could  hear  them  now,  as  he 
stood  at  the  crossing  to  wait  for  her ; 
away  up,  high  above  him,  in  the  air,  as  it 
were  ;  those  quick,  sharp,  unerring  beats, 
in  even  gallop.  The  mare  had  not  once 
broken  her  gait ;  he  remembered  that, 
even  in  the  midst  of  his  fright  for  the 
gallant  rider,  riding  at  that  moment  along 


Tappine  361 

the  narrow,  dangerous  ledge  of  the  Back- 
bone, —  that  little  wall-like  comb  that 
divided  two  almost  impenetrable  gulches. 

Nearer  came  the  hoof-beats,  and  nearer ; 
a  moment,  and  clean-cut,  an  exquisite 
silhouette  against  the  bright  blue  of  the 
sky,  her  hair  a  banner  of  floating  gold, 
the  mare  a  chiselling  of  gleaming  bronze, 
Tappine  dashed  into  view  along  the  Back- 
bone. He  watched,  breathless  and  admir- 
ing, at  the  foot  of  the  road  where  it 
inclined  to  the  level  again. 

"  It's  a  God's  mercy  ef  the  mare  don't 
kill  her  befo'  she  ever  gits  off  o'  that  thar 
ridge,"  he  murmured,  as  the  brave  beast 
bore  gallantly  down,  without  a  swerve  or 
break,  towards  the  forks  at  the  foot  of  the 
great  ridge.  Her  courage,  the  boundless 
heroism  of  her  love,  that  brooked  neither 
death  nor  danger,  was  to  Ben  something 
sublime,  grand ;  something  a  man  might 
fall  down  and  worship. 

"  Lord !  if  I  could  win  a  woman  like 
that,  ter  love  me  like  that  —  " 


362  Tappine 

The  mare  was  galloping  straight  on, 
down  the  steep  incline,  as  evenly  as  across 
the  velvety  cove-lands ;  a  moment  more 
and  she  stood  upon  the  narrowest  ledge 
of  all  that  narrow  wall.  'That  passed,  and 
Tappine  might  hope  for  life.  Suddenly, 
far  down  the  Hollow,  a  shot  rang  out; 
some  careless  hunter,  perhaps,  on  the  trail 
of  a  fox.  But  Ben,  watching  the  flying 
steed  dashing  along  the  narrow  ledge, 
gave  vent  to  a  sudden  startled  cry  of  hor- 
ror. For  one  instant  the  brown  mare 
seemed  to  literally  stand  on  air,  as  she 
lifted  herself  in  one  desperate  leap  before 
she  went  crashing  down  the  blufFs  side, 
through  brake  and  bush,  carrying  her 
dauntless  rider  to  her  death. 


THE    END 


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